


Ghosts

by thecarlysutra



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-01
Updated: 2009-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I married my lieutenant.  Post "NFA."  There are some aspects of the S8 comics—namely, location—but this story contains none of the comics' original characters or plotlines.  The sequel to <a href="http://carlyinrome.livejournal.com/390050.html">If You Drive Me Back</a>, though it isn't really a prerequisite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
          "If you love enough, you'll lie a lot."  
               Tori Amos, _Jackie's Strength_

 

I ride into battle, bombs whistling through the air. The night thunders with explosion, artillery, wordless cries. Above, through the cordite smoke, the stars shine in the peaceful night sky, complacent witnesses.

The sword is weightless in my hand, merely an extension of my arm. It is silent as it slices through the night, silent as time and time again it finds perfect aim. I direct its fury as my lungs move to breathe—an act that requires no thought, merely the body's memory. Time moves slowly, matching the cadence of my heartbeat. Flames erupt in slow blooms around me; screams are arias that stretch out endlessly into the night.

The sky grows pale as the battle falls silent. Beneath me, I feel the muscles of my horse bunch and swell as he walks slowly through the debris—fallen mortars, fallen men—and to camp. A boy takes my horse as I slide to the ground and into my tent. My lieutenant, dark-eyed, soft-spoken, is still injured, but he rises from his rest to remove my armor. His hands fall upon me, his lips. His fingers curl around the swell my armor hides, the child we've made.

***

Buffy woke clumsily, her sleep-addled mind tripping over things. She buried her face in her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut against the painful morning light. Wisps of her dream floated into her consciousness: fuzzy, partial pictures.

"I married my lieutenant," she said, remembering the fact if not the context.

Beside her, the blankets shifted. Her husband, completely covered, pressed his forehead against her shoulder.

"Is he bigger than me?" Angel mumbled, his voice vague, pulled as it was from his hypnagogic stupor.

Buffy braved the light and pulled her face from her pillow in order to squirm around to face him. His eyes were still shut, his body very relaxed. She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Go back to sleep," she said.

Angel murmured noncommittally, but in only a few moments had followed her instruction. Buffy kissed him again, then, as quietly as possible, slipped out of bed. She readjusted Angel's blankets, then went to get Kaya up. The baby was stirring quietly, her luminous dark eyes staring enraptured at the splendorous minutiae of her nursery's decorations: Babar sheets, balloon wallpaper, her insane wealth of stuffed animals. At Buffy's approach, Kaya raised her arms for Up, and Buffy brought the child, milk-scented and warm in her pajamas-with-feet, into her arms. They walked through the sleeping house—it was early for normal people, and people in the demon-hunting business tended to work late; the house's many rooms were all occupied but near silent—and downstairs to the kitchen. Buffy sat Kaya in her highchair and provided her with Cheerios and juice. For her own breakfast, she wrestled with the coffee maker for a bit, and then brought her steaming mug to the table; she drank the dark, bitter brew while watching Kaya use her spoon to flip her Cheerios out of the bowl and onto her highchair's tray, and then pick them up and eat them with her fingers. Usually Daddy made breakfast, but Buffy was reasonably sure there wasn't a way to mess up cold cereal.

Their pleasant silence was broken when the back door was opened and then slammed carelessly shut. In tramped Kennedy, followed by Sasha, her blonde, grey-eyed, perpetual shadow. Sasha had been with them less than a month; since Slayers far outnumbered Watchers these days, Buffy had taken to pairing the new girls with more experienced ex-potentials. As her charge, Sasha followed Kennedy everywhere.

"Hey, have we got some ugly news for you," Kennedy said. She and Sasha slid into seats at the kitchen table, in tandem.

Buffy sighed. "Just how I like to start my mornings."

"On patrol last night," Sasha began in her sharply accented English, but a look from Kennedy shut her up.

"We found another dead mommy-to-be," Kennedy said.

Buffy straightened in her seat. "What? Where?"

"Behind that bar me and Rona got kicked out of, remember, the—the one named after a penis piercing?"

Buffy flushed, and motioned to Kaya, oblivious but still impressionable. Kennedy rolled her eyes.

"The Prince Albert," Buffy said. "And like the other two, no marks?"

"No marks. Just, you know." Kennedy drew her finger across her throat.

Buffy frowned. Three dead pregnant women in just under two weeks, no marks but the bloody second smile of a slit throat. Buffy was almost inclined to believe that it was just the work of your common variety human serial killer, except all three women had been found in areas frequented by the undead.

"Well, crap," she said.

"Maybe it's some kind of ritual," Kennedy mused. "Are pregnant women good for anything?"

"Making babies," Buffy said dryly.

"No, I mean magically."

Kaya had finished with her Cheerios, and celebrated by overturning her bowl, still full of milk. Buffy took the bowl and spoon to the sink, and returned to the table with a roll of paper towels.

"That'd be a question for Will," Buffy said.

"Yeah, I told her about it," Kennedy said.

 _I'm sure you did,_ Buffy thought. She might have said it out loud, had Angel not taken that moment to descend the stairs into the kitchen, still mussed, unshaven, and pajama-clad.

"We'll talk about it later," Buffy said. She could feel the irritation rolling off Kennedy like heat from the pavement in July, but ignored it.

"Don't let me interrupt," Angel said. He pressed a kiss to the top of Kaya's head, and then went to root around in the refrigerator.

"You aren't," Buffy said.

"Except in the literal sense?" he said.

Buffy shrugged. "Just shop talk."

Once Angel's attention was on the women at the table, Sasha beamed, and said something to him in Russian. She adored him; he was the only person in the house who spoke her native tongue, and one of the only people who didn't treat her like a child, like something green and willful to be tempered.

Buffy tried to concentrate on mopping up Kaya's mess as her husband chatted in a secret language with a nubile, blonde seventeen-year-old. She shouldn't be jealous, really. Really, Angel was kind of ridiculously good. The house—populated as it was with between ten and thirty young women at the height of their physical prowess—sometimes resembled the Playboy Mansion, or what the Playboy Mansion would be like if it had daily boot camps, and a full armory. But Angel was just passive, uninterested. He kept to himself; he cooked, and gardened, and he took care of Kaya, and he got a job translating for a local university. On the whole, he abandoned the girls to Buffy as he did every other aspect of the demon world. He did, however, have an uncanny talent for spotting the weak or troubled girls: the girls who were homesick, or struggling, or being picked on by the other girls. Girls like Sasha. And he'd make an effort, in his effortless, quiet way, to reach out to them.

 _I shouldn't be jealous,_ Buffy reiterated to herself. Angel was just being a good person. Intellectually, she knew this. But emotionally, Angel tended to get the better of her. Not as a person, just as a subject.

Maybe some deep breathing exercises would help.

"Have you guys slept yet?" Buffy asked Kennedy. It was early; it was conceivable they'd just come off patrol.

"We took a power nap."

"Powerful enough that you can lead your morning training session?"

Kennedy's eyes sparked. "Of course. Boss."

Buffy smiled tightly. She took a deep breath. "Why don't you and Mini-Me go wake up the recruits? You could do a bed check, or something. A surprise inspection. I know how you enjoy those."

"Just keeping your ship in shape," Kennedy said. She rose from the table, headed up the stairs.

Sasha frowned, her eyes tracking her mentor. She lingered with Angel for a bit, but as soon as the older girl was gone from view, she rose, and—with reluctance that was apparent without a translator—followed Kennedy up the stairs to the sleeping quarters.

Angel and breakfast came to sit beside Buffy at the table.

"Hi," he said, and smiled.

She smiled, too, and leaned in to kiss him.

"Orange juice-y," she said.

"So," he said. "You trying out your drill sergeant act?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You disapprove?"

"They're just kids. Babies."

"Yeah. They're babies that are going to have to go into battle, and I'd like it if they, you know, lived."

Angel didn't say anything, but his shoulders tensed. Buffy relented; this was not a subject Angel was comfortable with, and it wasn't fair to press him. He didn't really understand.

"So what are your plans today?" she asked, veering to another topic. "Are you working?"

"I've got some bookwork to do," he said. "I'll probably start on it when I put Kaya down for her nap."

"No nap," Kaya said.

"Not now," Angel said. "Later."

"No nap."

"And I've got to do something about those tomatoes," Angel continued, as though there had never been a break in the conversation, "they're crowding everything out. That fertilizer was definitely a mistake; I don't know what we're going to do with six bushels of tomatoes."

"We'll make salads. And BLTs. And salsa. And . . . um . . . ooh, spaghetti sauce! And marinara . . . you have a whole Italy full of sauce options."

Angel smiled ruefully. "I wish I had your optimism."

"Well, we're married, so I think legally it's half yours."

Angel laughed. "I feel better already."

***

"Now, when you do this, you want to make sure you keep your legs shoulders' width apart; that way, you don't screw up your balance. The last thing you want in a middle of a fight is to fall on your ass."

As if on cue, Chen fell on her ass. Some of the younger girls tittered; Buffy shot them a harsh glance, and they quieted. Head hanging, eyes downcast, Chen came to her feet. Buffy knew that she should say something, chin up there, Chen, you'll get the hang of it, but she found herself out of patience. Not a new thing, these days. She was the leader, she was supposed to be mature and inspirational, but half the time she heard the other girls dishing dirt and just agreed. At twenty-four, Chen was one of the older girls at the compound, but she was also one of the weakest; they'd only discovered her recently, and Chen had no experience using her Slayer skills at all before coming to the house. Worst of all, she was proud; she might have learned more, or made more friends, had she not been so stubborn in the belief that she could do anything and everything on her own. She'd even managed to drive off Angel and his junior Slayer outreach program, snapping at him with what Dawn later informed Buffy was some seriously nasty Mandarin.

Buffy glanced briefly at Chen's flushed face, her angry dark eyes; at the girls still stifling giggles. She averted her eyes, rolled her shoulders. It was strange to feel constricted in movement, when on the battlefield, she could fly. Buffy bounced on the balls of her feet, encouraging her blood to flow.

"Okay! Let's try that again. Shoulders back, legs apart. Stay with me."

***

Buffy wasn't good at research under the best of circumstances, but it was nearly impossible when her half-naked husband was mere inches from her. Buffy threw him an ugly look from overtop her boring and ridiculously dense book.

"Stop that," she said.

Angel looked up from his own book—a French novel—which he had been, up to this point, completely engrossed in. "Stop what?"

Buffy motioned helplessly to his bare chest, the boxers that were the only thing between her and more naked flesh. "Being all . . . sexy and distracting."

Angel took off his reading glasses, and set the glasses and his book down on his bedside table. "You think I'm sexy?"

Buffy flushed. "That's what you choose to pick out of that? The point is—"

Angel crawled over her, flattening the enormous book to her stomach. God, if the book wasn't annoying enough by itself; now it had to be a freakin' chastity belt. No good came from reading.

"I'm distracting," Angel said. "You said."

Angel took the book from Buffy's stomach and let it drop to the floor. And then he was moving slowly against her, and his weight was pressing her to the bed, and his sweet mouth was milking kisses from her. Research wasn't her thing, anyway. She was less theory, more action. Buffy brought her hands to Angel's body, traced the contours of his muscles, the familiar span of his shoulders. The sheets were between them, making sensation foreign and muted, and binding Buffy to the mattress. She wriggled against the constriction, against Angel's delicious touches. He moved languorously, his hands, his mouth, making their way across the continent of her body. Buffy was enchanted, content to just lie there letting the warmth and tension build. Her flesh was febrile, and the sheets clung to her dewy skin.

And then the bedroom door opened, and half a dozen chattering girls, accompanied by Xander, filed in. Angel stopped, went taut, drawing away from Buffy, sitting up awkwardly. Buffy, cheeks ablaze, snapped up to a sitting position and threw the sheets over Angel's lap.

"This had better be good," she said. "Someone had better be dead."

"Wish granted," Xander said.

"We found another pregnant woman," Kennedy said.

"Just like the others," Willow said. She looked uncomfortably at Angel, flashed Buffy a small, sheepish smile.

Buffy raked her hand through her hair. "And you still haven't found anything helpful in Researchland?"

Willow shook her head.

Buffy sighed. "This is ridiculous. Kennedy, in the morning we'll make up patrol maps; we are locking down this city. _Everybody_ is going out _every night_ until we've shut this down. You girls better rest up; until we've stopped this, the city is a police state. Mine. Got it?"

Kennedy nodded crisply. A few of the junior Slayers looked slightly queasy.

"Dismissed," Buffy said.

They filed out, Willow apologizing for their bad timing ad nauseum. Buffy got up and locked the door behind them, and then padded back to bed, sat beside Angel. Her good mood was totally gone; now she just felt sweaty and annoyed. Angel looked extremely perturbed, his muscles steel wire taut. Buffy placed her hand over his, and he jumped.

"Sorry," she said.

"Pregnant women?" he asked.

Buffy filled him in, in a halting, bare bones kind of way. When she'd finished, he looked sick.

"Pregnant women," he repeated.

Buffy nodded helplessly. Angel shook his head and went to lay down, his back facing her. He was still very tense. Buffy looked after him a moment, considering her options. She could try to touch him, to bring him back around that way. She could explain again about her job, why it was so important, why it was worth all this.

She picked her book off the floor, and resumed reading.

***

The girls were ragged. Buffy and Kennedy's patrol schedules had every one of them out from dusk 'til dawn, with training and research during the day. And still nothing. Buffy herself was restless. A target gave her boundless energy, but so far she'd had nowhere to spend it.

Buffy stomped into the kitchen for water and an excuse to get away from the whiny, obstinate horde she was attempting to mold into warriors. She marinated in the house's uncharacteristic silence as she sucked on a water bottle from the fridge, painfully cold inside her body's inferno. When a drink hadn't wasted enough time, she took the long route back to the clearing beside the house where her girls were training, leaving out the kitchen's back door and cutting through Angel's garden.

Here, she paused. She hadn't expected him to be around, but there he was: kneeling in the soft, carefully nurtured earth, pushing leaves and petals aside to water the roots. Several tools were spread out on the grass, and a baby monitor was nestled beside a clump of petunias.

"Nice day out today," he said when he heard her approach.

"For who?"

Angel smiled and went back to tending his flowers. In the distance, Buffy was aware of her training group stumbling through the combination she'd left them with. Further off, she could hear Kennedy barking orders to her own group. Buffy walked over to her husband, knelt beside him in the warm, wet grass.

"How's it coming?" she asked.

"Good. Hydrangeas are blooming nicely."

Buffy wasn't sure which those were.

"They're all very pretty," she said.

Angel smiled. "And how are yours?"

"Huh?" She heard Kennedy screaming at her class, telling her maggots that she'd seen better soldiers in the Girl Scouts. "Oh. You know, insolent and lazy. I'm thinking of getting a big stick."

"Maybe you should consider easing up on them a little. You know, sanding with the grain?"

Buffy brooded. "I think you're mixing your metaphors."

"They're just kids," Angel said. "They're awkward and inexperienced, but I think they're trying. Most of them are really desperate to please you."

Buffy preened a bit. "Oh yeah?"

Angel raised an eyebrow. "You hadn't noticed that?"

"Well, you know me. I tend to dwell on the bad." She saw a flicker of hurt cross Angel's face, and she quickly amended: "I mean, in my professional life."

"Right," Angel said.

Buffy decided to change topics. She grabbed the baby monitor, held it to her ear. The soft static of sleeping breaths.

"Kaya's napping?"

"She is," Angel said. "Hey, speaking of—there's something I wanted to talk to you about . . ."

He trailed off, his vision suddenly catching somewhere over her shoulder. Buffy frowned, and turned to follow his gaze. One of the junior Slayers in her training group was standing nervously behind her.

"Um, Buffy?" she said. "Um, Chen kind of, um, we think maybe she twisted her ankle, and . . ."

Buffy sighed. She turned back to her husband.

"Duty calls. Rain check?"

He nodded. She kissed him quickly before jumping to her feet and going off to avert her life's latest crisis.

***

They'd been out combing the streets for hours with not so much as a demonic hiccup when they found the girl. Buffy; Willow; Kennedy; Sasha; and Yael, one of Buffy's better students, were walking the empty, rain-slick streets when a scream tore through the night. They had reached the source in under a minute, but it wasn't time enough: they arrived to find a pregnant woman, throat slit, laid across the mouth of the alley.

Power thrummed through Buffy's body, and she looked up from the woman's corpse to meet cold, animal eyes. It was a breed of demon she wasn't familiar with, and it was huge. And holding a bloody knife. Buffy's heart thudded behind her breastbone; this could all end right here.

"Will, behind me; guard this exit. Sasha, Yael, you're in charge of the other end. No one gets out. Kennedy, you're with me."

The girls ran to their positions. Buffy swung her axe into her hand; Kennedy brought out her daggers.

"This part of the job is why I put up with you," Kennedy said.

"You aim your quips at the bad guy," Buffy said. "Haven't I taught you anything?"

The demon rushed them, knife poised. Buffy and Kennedy ran to meet him. Kennedy lost a dagger in his beefy chest before a well-timed backhand sent her flying. Buffy countered aggressively, chopping in broad strokes at his thick form. After failing to dodge several swipes, the demon succeeded in grabbing the axe by the head and throwing it with such force that Buffy nearly went with it. It clattered away into the dark night.

Kennedy took the demon's preoccupation with Buffy's woodsman routine to her advantage, sneaking behind him and knocking him to his knees. Buffy, sans-weapon, had to improvise. Before he could come to his feet, she grabbed him around the neck. A loud, clean crack, like thunder before the rain, and Buffy let the demon's dead weight fall to the pavement.

"Well," she said, wiping her hands on her jeans, "that's how that's done."

Buffy went to retrieve her weapon while Willow and Kennedy combed the body for clues.

"Looks like a talus demon," Willow said.

"Maybe some kind of ritual?" Kennedy asked.

"Please say 'yes,'" Yael said. "I love all my plot sewn up in half an hour."

Willow shook her head. "They're not what you'd call a magic-loving people. Er. Not people. Group?"

Buffy crouched beside the body. "So, are we looking at a just for sport kind of situation, here?"

"I don't know," Willow said. She opened her mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it again, her face going pale.

Buffy frowned. "What . . . ?"

Willow pulled back a torn bit of the monster's shirt, revealing a dark symbol marring its flesh. Buffy's mouth stuck, sudden lockjaw.

Kennedy squinted. "What is that? Some kind of tattoo?"

Willow's face took on an expression from her youth, an expression for coming to class without homework, for keeping secrets and sneaking out and being very un-Willow. "Buffy, we've seen that mark before . . ."

"Shut up," Buffy said, an instinctive action; thought stopped after the desire to protect her family.

Kennedy angled a sharp look at Willow. "We have? Where? What is it?"

Willow hesitated, looked to Buffy. Buffy's eyes were on the dead demon, on the horrible, familiar mark.

"It's the mark of the Black Thorn," Willow said finally. "It's . . . it's tattooed on Angel."

Buffy shook her head. "He doesn't know anything about that."

Sasha's brow creased. "How does he not know—?"

Buffy shot the girl a withering glance, and she shut up.

"He doesn't know anything about it," Willow said gently. "But that mark popping up? So close to him? It's not good, Buffy."

Buffy was stung.

"Angel doesn't have anything to do with this," she said.

"I know," Willow said. "But he could. Very soon."

Realization dawned, and Buffy's hurt was replaced with fear. "You think they could be here for him?"

Willow didn't answer, her mouth twisted with indecision. A frisson of fear shivered its way up Buffy's spine.  



	2. Chapter 2

"Angel? Honey?"

Angel was in the habit of listening to his body rather than social conventions: he ate when he was hungry; he slept when he was tired. For this reason, Buffy was unsurprised to find him sprawled across the big leather couch in the library, fully dressed—still wearing even his reading glasses—and littered with papers, dead asleep. He must have gotten tired working and just laid down for a minute, and fallen asleep right where he was. Buffy knelt beside him, shook him gently.

"Honey?"

Angel blinked blearily awake. He frowned as the image of his wife came into strange focus, and then, realization dawning, fumbled with his glasses for a moment until his hands, unsteady with sleep, were able to remove them.

"Hey."

Buffy pressed a soft kiss to Angel's lips, and then curved a hand around his waist, guided him up. "It's late. Let's go to bed. You know, in a real bed."

Angel allowed himself to be led upstairs. He leaned against Buffy's body, let his hand settle at the small of her back; not for stability, but merely for the tactile pleasure.

"Nice patrol?"

Buffy tried to keep the images, the fear, from flooding her, but was unable. The woman's lifeless eyes, the horrible barbed circle, a harbinger for Angel.

"No," she said finally. "I've got something I need to talk to you about—in the morning."

"I can talk now. I'm awake. Really."

"In the morning," she said.

Angel paused a moment, studying her face. At last, he nodded. "Okay."

He was awake. Buffy had wanted, had planned on, a few private minutes brushing her teeth and washing her face in which to decompress and become happy, married Buffy, but as soon as the bedroom door was shut behind them, Angel's hands were curled around her ribcage and he was lifting her, into the air, down to the mattress, and his body was covering hers, his mouth was covering hers.

Okay. That could work, too.

Afterwards, Buffy lay beside him in the dark, watching the rise and fall of his chest. With her fingers, she traced the curve of the tattoo on his chest: the large mantra wheel, so dark it could have been burned into his skin rather than inked there, broken by the jagged pink scar that cut across Angel's torso.

"Does it ever bother you?"

Angel spoke with his eyes closed, his voice vague. "Does what ever bother me?"

"The whole . . . not knowing. The whole . . . arena of things that you don't know."

Angel opened his eyes, shot an incredulous look at her. "Are you calling me stupid?"

"What? No! No, I mean . . . all the things you've forgotten. The things you don't know about you, your life."

"Well, sure, sometimes. It can be frustrating." He studied her face for a moment; as usual, he was a good reader, because the next thing he said was, "But I'm happy. Here with you, with Kaya. Our family. The life I can't remember . . . ? It can't be any better than this."

***

The next morning, Buffy had Yael take over training. They were on a tight schedule, but some things couldn't wait.

"It's nice, having you around for breakfast," Angel said, smiling at her from over his pancakes. "I feel like we haven't been spending any time together, lately."

Buffy pushed bits of syrup-sodden pancake about her plate. "We haven't. And I'm sorry. It's just this stupid case is starting to get really hairy, and . . ." She put her fork down, met Angel's eyes. "There's something I need to ask you."

"Okay."

"Do you know—do the words 'black thorn' mean anything to you?"

Angel shook his head. "No."

"Really—really think about it, for a second. See if you can remember anything."

Angel frowned, but he gave it the old college try. He ruminated for several moments, face taut with concentration. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry. No."

Buffy wrestled for a moment with how to proceed next. Finally, she started unbuttoning his shirt.

Angel jumped. "Buffy—public—Kaya—"

He motioned to their daughter, sitting mere feet away, demolishing her own breakfast. Buffy ignored his protests; once she'd gotten half his shirt undone, she pushed the fabric aside, baring his chest. The horrible tattoo.

"Do you know where you got this? Do you know what it means?"

"You know I don't," Angel said weakly.

He looked so lost, so hurt, that Buffy felt even worse about having to bring this up.

"That's the Black Thorn," Buffy said. "It's their mark."

Angel began to rebutton his shirt. "I don't know what that means."

"It means that you had something to do with this group, the Black Thorn. Back before you lost your memories."

He looked at her helplessly. "I don't know what that means."

"Neither do I, really. Only that you—you were associated, somehow, with this group."

"So?"

"So, I—Angel, the case I've been working on?"

"The pregnant women?"

"Yeah," she said. "The pregnant women. We got a break last night. Our only break."

"That's great."

"No, it isn't. Our break is—we found out that, whatever's going on with these women, the Black Thorn is involved."

Angel flinched. He came out of it looking like the victim of a car accident: injured, dazed.

"I—Buffy, I don't know what that means. I mean—I wouldn't . . . you can't think that I—"

"No! Oh, honey, no. I just—I just need to know if you remember anything at all about the Black Thorn, or your tattoo, or . . . or anything. Please think hard. It's important."

Angel didn't say anything. Buffy was about to press him again when she noticed his hands were shaking. She folded her arms around him, gently brought him against her.

"It must be a mistake," Buffy said. "Just—please, forget about it. I'm sure it's just a coincidence that those marks are the same. Please, just forget about it, Angel. Just forget about it."

***

"He's got to know something," Xander said.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he's probably just been faking this amnesia thing for the past four years. Why didn't I see it sooner?"

"No one doubts that Angel's memory loss is legitimate," Giles said.

"Except me," Xander said.

"—the point stands," Giles said without breaking stride, "that it is very likely that he did, at some point, possess some knowledge of the Black Thorn."

"Knowledge that we haven't had any luck finding anywhere else," Willow said.

"Knowledge that we hella need," Kennedy said.

"That's super," Buffy said. "But it's not really an option. It's _poof!_ , gone. We need to start looking somewhere else."

"I'm with her," Dawn said. "I mean, wishful thinking's great, but it's not going to help us stop bad guys."

"Yeah, thanks for the pep talk there, frosh, but the grownups are talking," Kennedy said. "Angel's memories were removed magically. Magic can put them back. Willow can—"

Buffy blanched. "No, she can't."

Kennedy's eyes flashed. "You don't know what she's capable of! She's got amazing powers, and you're always holding her back—"

Willow placed her hand over Kennedy's. "Honey, it's okay. Buffy's not . . . what she's saying is that, yeah, I _can_ —"

"But you can't," Buffy finished. "You can't do that to him. We made a decision, and—and it's worked out great. He's happy."

"His happiness," Xander said, "does not relate to the fate of the world."

"We're not talking about the fate of the world," Buffy said.

"No, just the fate of a few women," Xander said. "How many bodies is a fair trade for Angel's happiness? Let's see, how many was it last time—?"

"That's enough," Giles said. "Everyone's personal feelings aside, I think that we may yet find answers through less invasive, more traditional outlets."

Buffy squinted. "Huh? Translation?"

"Lots of research," Dawn said.

Kennedy frowned. "That's always your answer."

"Well, there's a few compendiums I haven't tried yet," Willow said brightly. "And I found a guy online who can get his hands on—"

She tapered off. Buffy frowned, unsure of the cause. Then, behind her, a gentle clearing of the throat; she turned and saw the catalyst: Angel, Kaya in his arms, both of them in their pajamas.

He met Buffy's eyes. "I need to talk to you."

She motioned toward the group. "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Neither Angel's expression, nor his tone, changed. "I need to talk to you."

Buffy recognized Angel's steady expression as resoluteness that would turn, without much prompting, to mulishness, so she excused herself from her friends and guided Angel into the hallway.

She was annoyed, but tried to keep her tone even. She didn't have time to fight, right now. "What is so important that you had to interrupt me?"

Angel was keeping his tone even, too, though Buffy expected it was more a suppression of self-righteousness than irritation. "Kaya wants you to tuck her in."

Buffy blinked. "Can't you do that? I'm—"

"You can give us five minutes. She asked for you specifically. And I don't think," Angel said firmly, cutting off Buffy's attempt at further argument, "that a child wanting her mother to put her to bed is unreasonable."

Buffy felt her righteous fury flag. She didn't know which of them was better at guilt-tripping: her husband, or her daughter. At least Kaya was only two; Buffy shuddered to think of how good the girl would be at it once she'd grown.

"Fine," she said. "Er—sorry."

She held out her arms; Angel gently transferred their daughter to her. The girl's tiny hands curled into little fists clutching Buffy's shirt.

"I know your work is important," Angel said, trailing his wife and daughter up the stairs. "And I don't mean to—"

"You're important," Buffy said. "You and Kaya." She turned to face him, met his eyes. "You know I feel that way, right?"

He smiled. "I do."

Buffy laid Kaya in her bed, and smoothed the blankets over her. The three of them crowded into the bed as Buffy read from the selected bedtime book, Annals of Comparative Morphology of Mesopotamian Demons (they _had_ to stop letting her choose from all the books in the house, though Angel found it both amusing and educational; Buffy's Latin just wasn't good enough).

After goodnights and several denied requests for an encore, Buffy quietly shut Kaya's door behind her.

"Come on, handsome," Buffy said, capturing Angel's hand. "I'll walk you home."

Their bedroom was only the next room over, but Angel smiled and allowed himself to be escorted. They lingered in the doorway: he, halfway in; she, standing just outside.

"Invite you in?" Angel said.

Buffy frowned. "Love to, can't. I've got work stuff to do."

"Goodnight kiss?"

Buffy took him up on it, one hand pulling him to her, one hand braced on the doorframe. After longer than she intended, she let him up grinning.

"Are you sure you don't want to come in?" Angel asked.

"I wish I could."

She started back downstairs to her meeting, which by now had surely become a full out brawl. Angel's hand caught her wrist and pulled her back.

"I know you have to go," he said. "But there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about, and I don't think it can wait anymore."

Worry flowered in Buffy's abdomen. How long, exactly, had he been listening in on their conversation?

"I want to make a child with you," Angel said. "I think the timing's right—we're settled; things with my work are great; things with your work are crazy, but kind of par for crazy. And Kaya—I really want the kids to be close together in age, so they'll always have someone to play with."

Whatever Buffy had been expecting, it wasn't that. Her veins ran with Novocain.

"A—a baby," she said. "You want another baby."

"Don't you? I thought . . ."

"Well, I don't know, I—I guess I never really thought about it. Kind of like how I never really thought about Kaya until . . . you're sure you want one now?"

Angel took her hands in his. "I'm sure. Buffy, this'll be so good for Kaya, for our family. Just—I've just been thinking about it a lot lately, and I just . . . I just need to know that you're thinking about it, too."

Buffy gently extricated herself. "Yeah, I'm . . . I'm definitely thinking about it."

Angel beamed. "That's all I wanted."

He kissed Buffy again and then slipped into their bedroom. Buffy felt the imprint of his lips etched upon hers, long after he'd gone.

***

The meeting ran late into the night, though no decision, really, was ever made. Buffy climbed the stairs to bed more exhausted then she ever felt after patrol; she was not a creature meant to be penned.

Her bedroom was dark; Angel, an unmoving shadow curled on the bed. Buffy got ready in the dark; she changed into nightclothes, and washed her face, brushed her teeth. She popped a birth control pill out of the foil and into her palm. It was halfway to her mouth when she stopped. Lowered her hand, studied the tiny dot in her palm. It was so small, the size of a seed, or a birthmark.

Perhaps appropriately, then.

She thought of Kaya's bright, happy face; of Angel's tireless patience, his endless capacity for joy and wonderment where their daughter was concerned. She thought of her pregnancy, of Angel's hands resting against her growing stomach, his nervous anticipation at the ultrasound, his obsessive readying of the nursery. And she thought about the earnestness and ridiculous hope on his face when he told her he wanted another child, how good it would be for Kaya, for their _family_.

Buffy threw the pill in the wastebasket, and then she threw the rest of the package in there, too.

She padded softly to bed, slipped herself under the covers and flush against Angel's back. She curved her arm around his middle, pulled him close. He made a sleep noise, and Buffy pressed purposefully tickling, teasing kisses to his neck, his ear. Angel moaned and shifted, and when she was sure he was awake, Buffy used her hands to urge him around to face her. Angel let himself be moved—malleable, agreeable—and blinked up at her groggily.

"Everything okay?"

Buffy slid her arms around his neck, pulled him close as she kissed him.

"I threw the pills away," she said. "I want us to make a baby. Now."

Angel was still for a moment, waking up or taking in. Then his hands were on her, and he was guiding her down to the bed, beneath him.

***

They'd killed the demon. Though Buffy was concerned about the Black Thorn's presence in her city, though she wanted to know what the group was up to, they had killed the demon. The case—the immediate case, anyway—was closed. She kept her people researching the Black Thorn, but only for prophylaxis; know thy enemy before he tries to kill your ass, or whatever. She pulled the police state patrol schedules; that there was some clandestine evil society in her neighborhood wasn't a good thing, but it wasn't a high alert situation anymore.

Buffy let herself become deeply involved in taking it easy. She let Yael lead some of her classes; she took a few nights off patrol. She went with her husband and daughter to the zoo, and she and Angel engaged in some Olympic qualifying sex marathons. She even had time for a few good, old-fashioned, wined and dined dates. Nearly a whole month without a major crisis. It was like heaven.

Of course, Buffy had been to heaven before. It had been impermanent then, too.

Bright and early, helping Xander fix the pipes in one of the showers—helping in the way that was holding the plans and doling out tools and generally staying out of the way. Apparently, Europe had crappy plumbing; Buffy felt like she was constantly shelling out for new pipes. Though it was nice to have time for home repairs.

"Hand me the auger."

Buffy frowned. "What's an auger? Are you sure that's even a word?"

"It's that . . . loopy looking thing," Xander said.

Buffy handed Xander the auger. He went at the exposed pipes with it.

"Tell me if you find anything down there. If I catch another girl stuffing inappropriate things down the drain, there's going to be some serious hell to pay."

"Shower's plumbing doesn't really work like that, Buff."

Buffy started to say something about how she'd never signed up to be mother to thirty ungrateful teenage brats, but then her thoughts drifted to an hour ago, raw and sated, Angel laying his hand over her belly, telling her he was sure they'd done it that time, he could feel it.

"Can you do me a favor, Xan," she asked, "and try to be nicer to Angel? He doesn't understand about this Black Thorn thing; he knows you're mad at him, but he doesn't know why."

"I'm sure."

"We're trying to get pregnant," Buffy said.

Xander turned from his project to look at her. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And I know you and Angel will never be bestest friends, but usually you manage to be civil, and that would do a lot for me right now, if I didn't have to worry about the two of you and your . . . testosterone."

Xander quirked a smile. "I'll see what I can do."

Buffy smiled. It came crashing down in mere seconds when Kennedy burst through the door.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," she said breathlessly.

"Here I am," Buffy said.

"We need you. Right now."

Buffy frowned, rose. "What's the matter?"

"Chen's dead," Kennedy said. "Got killed by another guy with your boyfriend's tattoo, right after he finished killing another pregnant woman. It's a two-for-one emergency. So. Like I said. We need you right now."

***

Buffy did her best to comfort the girls. To instill them with strength and understanding and grace. Hypocrite. She was numb, the words coming automatically, navigating them through their sorrow when her only emotion was fear. As the comforting words left her mouth, another conversation ran through her mind: _Angel, people are dying, we have to give you back your memories._

She found him in Kaya's room, tidying up. His face was grave, and when he saw her he came to her and took her in his arms.

"I'm so sorry, Buffy."

More than anything, she wanted never to move from this embrace, but she pushed her feelings to the back burner, pushed him gently away.

"We have to talk."

Angel glanced anxiously at Kaya, playing just feet away.

"Not a D-E-A-T-H talk," Buffy said. "Something about you."

"Okay."

"We—we're pretty sure Chen was ki—" She glanced at Kaya and adjusted her wording. "We're pretty sure that what happened to Chen, it—it was the Black Thorn." Angel's eyes sparked with fear, but Buffy kept going. She had to. "Angel, we need your memories. I—I thought we had time before the Black Thorn was going to be a problem, but obviously we don't."

Angel looked spooked. He fidgeted. "I'm sorry. I can't—"

"Willow found a spell to restore your memories," Buffy said. "I don't think we have another choice."

Angel relaxed. He looked almost happy. "Really? Okay, I—"

Buffy held up her hands. "Angel, they're—they're not all going to be good memories."

"Well, of course not, I—"

"There's going to be things that will be painful for you to know."

Angel regarded her curiously. "Are you saying I shouldn't? Because—because if people are dying, and I can help, there isn't a choice. I have to."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. You're right; we don't have a choice right now. But I . . . I want you to be prepared. . . . Angel, I don't want you to get hurt."

Angel held out his hand. Buffy was unsure of his intent, but she took it.

"You'll be there for me, if I do get hurt?" Angel asked.

"Of course I will."

"Then I'll be fine."  



	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take Willow long to locate the memory retrieval spell, to set up for it. She took her ingredients into the basement, where there was plenty of room to work and low probability of random interruption from the house's denizens.

Buffy paced as Willow set up. It wasn't enough time.

"You've tried everything, researchwise," she asked again.

"And then some," Willow said. "Buffy, calm down; he'll be fine."

"You're kind of freaking me out," Angel said.

"And annoying me," Kennedy added.

Sasha poked around Willow's ingredients until she was shooed away.

"What is she doing?" she asked.

Angel explained it to her in Russian.

Buffy, in the interest of not freaking Angel out, forced herself to stop pacing. Instead, she went to stand by Angel, clutching his hand.

"Are you nervous?" she asked. "It's okay to be nervous. If you—we could wait, maybe."

"I thought timing was kind of a factor, here," Angel said.

"It is. But . . ." Buffy faltered. She searched desperately for words that would make this easy, that would fix this, but came up blank.

"I'm not nervous," Angle said. "I'm kind of excited, actually. I mean, there's so much I don't know . . . and any minute, I'll know it."

He smiled. Buffy's smiling muscles were atrophied.

Willow finished blessing her spell, and brought it—in a large Tupperware bowl—over to Angel.

"Okay," she said. "Ready?"

Angel straightened. "I am." He eyed the bowl dubiously. "Um . . . is it—will it hurt?"

"Nope! Though I don't know how it'll taste."

Angel frowned. "Taste?"

"That's right," Willow said. She ran her finger around the inside of the bowl, brought it up covered in the potion. It looked vaguely like tapioca. "Open up."

Angel opened his mouth. Willow touched the tapioca finger to his tongue, then took her bowl and took a step back. Angel, wincing slightly, closed his mouth, swallowed.

"It tastes terrible, for the record," he said.

"Who cares how it tastes," Kennedy said. "Did it work?"

Buffy's heart was pounding in her ears; she could barely decipher Kennedy's words. She relinquished her hold on Angel's hand, afraid she'd hurt him.

Angel smiled bemusedly.

"I don't think it worked," he said. And then his face went blank, his eyes focused on something invisible, far away. His jaw jerked, and he took a step, like a sleepwalker, and then crumpled to his hands and knees, no longer able to bear his own weight.

Buffy rushed to him. She knelt beside him, placed her hands on his shoulder, his waist, preparing to help him back to his feet. But the moment he felt her touch, Angel convulsed harshly. Bronco.

"Don't," he said, and his voice was an old dead thing, a tomb dweller's voice.

Buffy removed her hands.

Kennedy came to join them, kneeling opposite Buffy. "Did it work?"

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," Buffy said, "and say, 'yes.'"

Kennedy beamed up at Willow. "That's my girl."

Sasha's dove-grey eyes were wide. "He is hurt?"

"Well, not really," Willow said. "Kind of."

Angel hadn't moved. He remained on the floor, on all fours, eyes down, apparently oblivious to the women chattering around him. His muscles were extremely tense, and every once in a while, he'd shudder. Buffy wanted to move him, but didn't know how, without touching him.

"Honey," she tried. "Angel, are you okay?"

"Do you remember, about the Black Thorn?" Kennedy interjected. "Because that'd be super helpful right now."

Buffy was about to tell Kennedy to shut up, to leave the room leave the house leave the planet, but just then, Angel spoke.

"I remember. Everything."

"Great!" Kennedy said. "We're kind of on a deadline, here, so if you could just, you know—"

She reached out to touch him, to sit him up. _No, don't touch him,_ Buffy thought, but before she could open her mouth, Angel, viper fast, had snapped his hand around Kennedy's wrist, stopped her arm's descent. He looked up at her; a thrill of fear coursed through Buffy. His face was a mask blank with rage, but his _eyes_ . . . she hadn't seen them like that, manic and feral, since he'd come back from hell.

"I said don't touch me," he said softly.

Shock was evident on Kennedy's face. The unfamiliar emotion made her look bare, small.

"Let go of me," she said thinly.

Angel released her. He sat back on his haunches, shaking.

Sasha said something in Russian. Angel ignored her. His wild eyes focused on Willow.

"Undo it," he said.

Willow's face fell. "Angel, I—"

"It's a lie, take it back!" He came to his feet unsteadily, stalked gracelessly toward her. Buffy and Kennedy rose too, shadowed him from a safe distanced. "I don't know how you put these things in my head, but I want them out."

"Angel," Willow said, "I'm sorry, but I can't—"

Angel lunged at her, all muscle and desperation. His hands closed around her throat, and Willow went pale, went slack. For a moment, Buffy was too panicked to move, and the moment cost her the upper hand; Kennedy did not hesitate, and by the time Buffy was able to move, Kennedy had hauled Angel off of Willow and thrown him against the wall so hard that it shook, so hard that Angel was still.

Kennedy fussed over Willow. Buffy's eyes fell to Angel, crumpled on the floor, bleeding and unconscious. His slack face was no less frightening. She went and knelt beside him, checked to make sure he was breathing.

Sasha looked around helplessly. "I do not understand."

"Here's the Cliffs Notes," Kennedy said, walking toward Angel. "We woke up the beast, and now he needs to be put down."

Buffy jumped to her feet and positioned herself between Kennedy and her husband. "I would love to see you try."

"Whoa!" Willow said, coming between them. "Let's just—let's just everybody calm down. I mean, we're all just . . . we're all just a little worked up."

"Maybe because your girlfriend said she was going to kill my husband," Buffy said. "You can understand how that'd make a girl testy."

"No one's killing anyone!" Willow said. "She didn't mean it, Buffy; Angel's human. Kennedy would never hurt a human, right, Kennedy?"

Kennedy's expression was hard.

"He could have killed you," she said.

"He wouldn't have hurt me," Willow said. "He just—"

"He had his hands around your throat! You woke up . . . you woke up those vampire memories, and now—he's not human anymore. He's—he's a half thing, he's—"

"He's human," Buffy said. "He breathes, he ages, he tans. He's my husband."

"He's dangerous," Kennedy said.

"He was upset!" Willow said. "Kennedy, just—"

"I'm not going to kill him," Kennedy said. "I'm not the monster here. But he's dangerous. He needs to be contained."

"I can take care of him," Buffy said. "I can . . . contain him."

"Gee, I feel better now," Kennedy said. "From what I've heard, you've been _great_ at containing him. You know, if lots and lots of dead people is any indicator."

Buffy shouldered past Willow, so she was standing inches from Kennedy.

"You don't know anything about that," Buffy said. "And if you—"

Willow let her hand rest on Buffy's arm.

"Buffy," she said. "Please don't."

Buffy glanced back at her friend. She was wearing her Concerned and Reassuring face, but her eyes were nervous. There were some red smudges on her neck, fingerprints.

"Will, it's _Angel_. He's my _husband_."

"I know," Willow said. "And, don't mistake, I love Angel, too. In a completely platonic, non-Fatal Attraction kind of way. But Buffy—I don't think Angel would ever hurt anyone else, not on purpose. But he could try to hurt himself. I mean . . . you told me he tried to kill himself, right, after he came back from hell?"

Buffy looked down at Angel's unconscious face. She hadn't thought of that. She remembered that night, the night it had snowed in Sunnydale. How frayed he'd been, how wild and needy and desperate. And her terror. She remembered her terror, the cancer gnawing away at her insides because against all odds she'd gotten him back, and here she was, going to lose him again.

"I don't think," Buffy began, and then stopped. She couldn't force the rest of the words up. She looked at the red smudges, like errant lipstick, on Willow's neck, at Angel's still face. "What do we do?"

***

Angel was heavy, even between Buffy and Kennedy and their Slayer strengths. Sasha still didn't understand, and flitted about nervously. Willow had tried to explain to her that they were doing this to help Angel, but either the sentiment didn't translate or the girl didn't buy it. She hovered anxiously in the periphery, torn between her loyalty to Angel, and her respect for Buffy.

"You should not," she said. Buffy angled a glare at her, and she shrunk back against the wall.

"Listen, junior," Kennedy said. "The grownups are working, here. Either help, or be quiet."

Sasha chose to be quiet.

Buffy wondered what life would be like without knowledge of how to securely brace manacles to a cement wall. Ah, the world of the professional demon killer came with so many surprise skill sets. She and Kennedy braced the chains and cuffs to the basement's back wall, and then they carried Angel over to it, puffing and arguing. Kennedy secured the manacles around his wrists while Buffy and Willow—Sasha refused to abandon her sentry—brought a cot down from the sleeping quarters and set it up against the back wall. Buffy lifted Angel onto the cot herself.

Willow hugged her. "It's for the best."

Buffy looked at Angel, slumped, lifeless and chained, across the cot. He'd been out a long time. Was it normal for people to be unconscious that long?

"I hope so," she said.

***

Buffy sent the other women away. She sat with Angel, alone, until he woke up. He was out less than ten minutes, but they stretched out for an eternity of wondering and worrying. He woke quietly, as though he had just closed his eyes for a moment.

"Hey," Buffy said when she saw his eyes open. "How're you feeling?"

Angel blinked a few times, confused by the change in perspective. He sat up; the chains rattled. He looked down at the manacles binding his wrists, followed the chains up to their mount on the wall.

"Don't be mad," Buffy said. "It's just for a little while. For your own good."

"Do me a favor, and stop doing things for my own good." He held up his wrists. "Unlock them."

Buffy hesitated. Upon leaving, Kennedy had hung the keys on a nail on the opposite wall, where Xander had had a dart board until the lack of depth perception really took his enjoyment out of the game. Buffy looked at them dangling there for a moment, then looked back at Angel's grave face.

"It's just for a little while," she said.

Angel didn't say anything. Buffy started to explain why it was for his own good, but it was obvious that he wasn't listening. After a moment, he spoke over her.

"Is Willow okay?"

"She is. She knows you just—you just kind of lost it for a second. She knows you'd never hurt her."

A darkness passed over Angel's features. "She doesn't know what I'm capable of. What I've done. If she did, she wouldn't say that."

"Angel—"

"Tell her I'm sorry."

Buffy weighed the options in her head. She wanted to tell him how ridiculous he was being, that those horrible things had happened in another lifetime. She wanted to promise him that everything was going to be all right, that soon he'd be happy again, they'd be happy again.

"Okay," she said.

Angel tested the reach of the chains. "This isn't going to fix anything, you know. It's just procrastination."

"Well, I'm great at that."

He just looked at her, face solemn, eyes haunted. She put her hand atop his, and he didn't pull away.

"I know," she said. "Angel, I'm so sorry."

***

"Is he talking?" Xander asked as Buffy finished her trek up the basement stairs and arrived, exhausted, in the kitchen.

"Not even a little," she said. "I couldn't get him to say a word. I couldn't even get him to look at me."

She'd been down to question Angel three times since Willow had given him his memories back. Each time she'd found him uncooperative; each time she'd found him in a different mood, each more frightening than the last. At first he'd been raw, restless, and unable to focus; then incoherent, weeping; this time, catatonic, by all indications completely unaware of her presence.

"We did this for nothing," Buffy said. "This isn't going to help anyone."

"I—I think I know a way to get him to talk," Willow said. She caught Buffy's expression and added, "A completely harmless way."

Kennedy hopped to attention. "What do you need?"

"About thirty minutes," Willow said, "and some ingredients from the pantry."

***

Angel growled, and pulled hard against the chains. Two of the junior Slayers grabbed him, held him to the wall, as Kennedy, with more force than was necessary, pried open his jaws.

"Sorry, Angel," Willow said. "But . . . you know."

She tipped the contents of her vial into his mouth. Kennedy clamped his jaws back shut before he could spit it out. It burned in an herby, cough-syrupy sort of way. Angel held his breath as long as possible, but eventually had to swallow. He could feel the liquid burning all the way down to his stomach, and his tongue and throat began to vibrate.

Kennedy and the other Slayers released him. His tongue twitched as he glared up at Willow.

"What did you do to me?"

Willow looked almost apologetic.

"It's just . . . well, it's a little . . ."

"You witch bitch," he growled, more a spasm than a statement. "Palabrium? You had no right, you had no right to just stick your magic wand into my head and—"

Buffy looked at her friend. "Will? What'd you give him?"

"It's just a little . . . potion. Just a little one! It's . . . it's kind of like a truth spell, you know, to . . . to make him talk."

"In fact, he won't be able to stop," Giles said. "Not until it's worn off."

Buffy glanced nervously at Angel. He was still talking, an angry and occasionally nonsensical constant stream. The way he was moving his mouth was mechanical, not quite human; it looked almost painful. "How long will it last?"

"About twenty minutes," Willow said. "Or . . . maybe thirty." She flinched under Buffy's sharp gaze. "Well, he's big, Buffy, so I gave him a little more than I'd usually make, and so . . . I'm not sure."

"Regardless, we have a limited period in which to question him," Giles said.

Buffy nodded. She had a job to do. She pushed past the junior Slayers loitering about and knelt in front of Angel, a foot or so beyond the reach of his chains.

"Angel," she said. "Honey, I know this is uncomfortable for you, but we need to ask you some questions."

"—you're always needing something," Angel spasmed. "I need to keep your memories, I need to give them back, I need to send you to hell—"

"Angel. Tell me about the Black Thorn."

"—a piece of meat. The Black Thorn is a secret society—not like the Illuminati or SPECTRE—"

Buffy frowned. "What's SPECTRE?"

Giles sighed. "Do they not teach you children anything relevant in school these days?"

"Is it, like, something I should know from history? Are they the people that tried to assassinate the Archduke of Australia?"

"The Archduke of Austria," Willow said.

"—like the opposite of a non-profit," Angel said. "Evil, but not just for evil's sake. Evil for profit. Evil doesn't just make money; money isn't the point. The point is power—"

Buffy frowned. That was a dogma she was familiar with.

"So, it's just like a club?" Kennedy asked.

"—doesn't go away. It's like a club, in the way that a meteor plummeting toward Earth is like a pebble. It's big, it's heavy, and if you don't do something, it'll kill a lot of people—"

"You're tattooed with their mark," Buffy said. "You're not evil. You're not a meteor."

"—grist for the mill. I joined the Black Thorn in order to infiltrate them. To destroy them from within—"

"What happened?" Willow said.

"—hubris. We destroyed one cell, one tiny head on the hydra. And everyone died—"

"Yeah, we get it," Kennedy said. "Go team you; you killed all the bad guys."

"—my team, my friends, my _family_. All of them dead—"

A cold chill ran through Buffy. She had never even tried to find out what happened to Angel's friends; they had been so out of contact before his memory loss that she wasn't sure, really, who his friends were anymore. But she should have tried; she should have at least known whether they were alive or dead.

"—loved them and I was their leader and they trusted me and I led them all to their deaths—"

"The Black Thorn killed them?" Giles asked. "Other cells?"

"—mission. Wolfram and Hart, to punish us for our betrayal and for—they were good clients—"

"So what's the Black Thorn doing here?" Willow asked.

"—for money; stupid. We never should have gone there, but I didn't think I had a choice, for Connor, I had to—had to be a provider, to protect him, and—"

"Angel," Willow said. "Do you know what the Black Thorn is doing here? With the pregnant women?"

"—thinks I'm dead. I don't know. I knew very little about the inner workings of the cell of the Black Thorn I was in the middle of; I don't know anything about other cells, except I assume their general purpose is the same—"

Buffy sighed. "To get rich doing evil? That's not much of a lead."

"It's something," Willow said.

"It's not enough," Buffy said. "It wasn't worth doing this to him."

***

Days went by. Angel's moods were mercurial, unpredictable. At times he was so lucid and calm that Buffy was reaching for the keys to bring him down and back into her life. And in the next second he'd be raging, or catatonic, with grief. He couldn't be coaxed to eat, and he couldn't stand to be touched. He fought against the restraints, and against his own body. He had nightmares that woke the household.

On the front, research had turned up no new answers about the Black Thorn. In the early dawn two days after Willow had performed the spell to give Angel back his memories, Yael had come across another murdered pregnant woman.

***

Angel woke to a warmth beside him, and to a familiar smell. Lipstick; licorice; the clean, earthy, wild smell of a horse or fox. He opened his eyes, but only to be polite. He knew her by scent.

"Faith."

She was sitting beside him on the floor, her legs pulled close to her body, hands resting on her knees. The predator in repose.

"Hey," she said. "Sorry—I would have been here sooner, but I was out of town."

"Spain," he said. "I remember."

"Yeah, well. Dawn called me, told me you were in trouble, so here I am."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Angel stretched as well as he could, given the constraints of his chains. His muscles ached from disuse.

"Is there something—dammit, is there anything I can do? You want—fuck, I don't know, candy, or—or smokes, or something?"

"Hustler?" Angel guessed. "The things I brought you in prison?"

Faith's dark mouth split into a grin. "Oh, yeah. Good memory."

"That's my curse."

Faith frowned. "Seriously. Is there anything—?"

Angel met her eyes. "Can you get me out of here?"

Her brow shot up. "Seriously?"

He nodded. Faith stood up. "Hell yeah, I can."

She had planned on just wrenching his chains from the wall, but on her way to her feet she spied a glint of silver on the far wall—the keys. She unlocked Angel's manacles and helped him to his feet. He tottered a bit at first, legs rubbery and cramped. His wrists were sore, and he rubbed at them absently, his hands encircling the knot of bones, making new manacles of his own flesh.

"Do you have someplace we can go?" he asked, following Faith up the stairs.

"Sure. I got a place here." At the top of the stairs, she motioned for him to hang back while she checked the hallway for traffic. "All clear. We should go out the back."

"I need a few things."

Faith hesitated, then checked the route to the stairs leading to the sleeping quarters on the second floor. "Okay. Clear, but hurry. I'd like to keep the violence to a minimum."

"You?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I'm mellowing out in my old age."

"You?"

The upstairs hallways were empty. In his room, Angel carelessly tossed clothing and toiletries into a duffle bag.

"Maybe you should think about a shower," Faith said. "You're kind of ripe."

"Later."

Bag in hand, Angel hurried to the room next door. It was dark—naptime. He filled the duffle's remaining space with Kaya's clothes, a few books, her Eeyore. He zipped the bag and handed it to Faith, then bent to Kaya's bed, picked up the sleeping child, blankets and all. She murmured somnolently, readjusted her thumb in her mouth, and then was still.

"Let's go."

***

Giles was in Super Stuffy Pedant mode, so Buffy didn't even chance glancing at her phone as it vibrated against her leg. By the time he'd finished his spiel, she had five missed calls.

"What's the crisis, Will?" she asked when her friend picked up—first ring. "You could have just left me a voicemail."

Willow's voice was thin with panic. "Kaya's gone."

Buffy's insides turned to stone. "What? What do you—what does that mean?"

"Kennedy and I were watching her, but then she got cranky, and we put her down for a nap and went to research. And everything was fine—we had the baby monitor, and there was no noise. She didn't even cry! But when we went to get her up, she was gone! Not in her bed, not—the door was still shut, so I don't even know how she got out, and we're looking everywhere but we haven't—"

Buffy was already running to her car. "I'll be right there."

***

They'd found nothing. True, the grounds were enormous and thick with wilderness, but—dammit, how had she even gotten out?

Some shivering ex-potential just past puberty was giving Buffy an update. ". . . and we checked the barn, and the training rooms, and—"

"You've checked _everywhere_?" Buffy asked tensely, running her hand through her hair. A whole goddamn army, and they couldn't even guard one toddler.

The Slayer hesitated. "Well . . . not the armory, or the basement, but they're locked . . ."

Buffy glared. "Take some girls, check the armory, and then report back to me. I'll check the basement myself."

She grabbed the keys from their hook beside the door, and took hold of the knob; sometimes the door stuck, and it was easiest to unlock if the door was flush against the frame. But when she touched it, the latch gave automatically. A sinking feeling gnawed at Buffy's insides. Someone had forgotten to lock the door, and Kaya could have pressed against it and fallen down the steep stone steps . . .

Buffy took the steps two, then three at a time. Nothing. There was nothing there, nothing to indicate that Kaya had ever been down there. She didn't know whether to be relieved, or more frightened. And then she noticed Angel's chains were empty, and the feeling doubled.

***

"I want to know how this happened," Buffy said, the incessant droning of waiting for Angel to pick up his cell phone trilling against her ear. "Why was no one on guard?"

Kennedy stuck out her jaw. "There was someone on! Faith was here, and—"

Buffy dropped the phone. It kept ringing; she could hear it from the floor. Or maybe the sound was internal, a feature of her fear and rage. "You. Left Faith. Alone with Angel."

"Well, yeah," Kennedy said. "I mean, she's a Slayer—a really great Slayer!—and I—"

Buffy stopped listening. She could hear Angel's cell phone ringing upstairs. Wordlessly, she tore up the stairs to it. It was there, she knew, without him or her daughter attached to it, on his dresser, just as it had been for days, since Willow had given him back his memories and he'd gone away. But she ran anyway.

There it was, ringing desperately, its alert light the only light in the empty, empty room. She picked up the phone, hit the ignore button so the ringing would stop. She sank to the bed with the phone in her hand, the refrigerator bright light of the screen, the horrible dark letters: _BUFFY. Call ended._

She opened his address book, scrolled down. He had very few contacts: her, Dawn, Giles, a few people at work. She scrolled the cursor to _FAITH_ , and hit send.

***

Cooking was not one of Faith's fortes. On the whole, her fortes had to do with beating things up, or getting them laid. On the whole, her fortes did not have to do with aprons, and that was the way she preferred it. Angel, though, was worth special effort. Here was a man who would sing Barry Manilow, in public, to save a soul. Here was a man who had brought her pornography and homemade brownies while she was in jail. This was a quality man, and so Faith cooked. She was making grilled cheese sandwiches, which was good because it only had a few ingredients to keep track of; and macaroni and cheese, which was good because all the hard parts came already done in the box, and it was mostly boiling water after that. Not haute cuisine, but one of her dinner guests hadn't eaten in days, and the other was two years old and thought juice boxes were hot shit, so Faith predicted excellent reviews.

She was slapping school bus yellow pieces of American cheese, the kind that came individually wrapped, onto thickly buttered slabs of white bread, when her phone rang. She wiped cheese grease off her hands and picked it up. The screen said _Angel_. Faith glanced briefly up at Angel: he was sitting at the kitchen table with Kaya, marching small, plastic safari animals over the place settings, and not prank calling her. Which meant that it was B. This was gonna be fun.

"Hey, Buffy," Faith said. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could continue making sandwiches while talking. "What's up?"

Buffy's voice was tight and icy. "Let me talk to Angel."

Faith held the phone out for him. "Hey, Angel. It's the little woman."

Angel regarded her blankly for a moment.

"I don't want to talk to her," he said finally.

"Hear that, B?" Faith said.

"I don't care what he wants," Buffy growled. "Give him the phone."

Faith looked at Angel. He shook his head. "No."

"He has Kaya, right?" Buffy asked. "I mean, he has her and she's okay—"

"The kid's fine," Faith said.

"Ask Angel if he knows what parental kidnapping is."

"Is that a threat?" Faith asked. Angel looked up, briefly, but Faith rolled her eyes and he went back to Kaya's game.

"No," Buffy decided finally. "Just . . . I . . . tell Angel that I want to talk to her."

"She wants to know if she can talk to the rugrat," Faith reported.

Angel was quiet for a moment. Then he turned to Kaya. "Do you want to talk to Mommy?"

Kaya wiggled her crocodile across her placemat. Crocodiles were very wiggly. When they curved their tails and bodies, they looked like S's, the wiggliest letter.

"Okay," she said.

Faith held the phone out to Angel; he took it like it might be poisonous, holding it away from his body. Cell phones made him nervous, what with the radio waves or the microwaves or however it was they worked, and he didn't like Kaya to use them, but Buffy didn't hold to the same ideal, so Kaya was versed in working the little machine.

"Hi, Mommy!"

All the unpleasant weight lifted from Buffy's chest. "Hi, sweetie. How are you? Are you okay?"

"Me and Daddy are playing Animals. And Aunt Faith is making mac' an' cheese!"

"That's great, honey. Did your daddy say . . . did he say when you're coming home?"

"He said we're going to stay with Aunt Faith for a while."

Some of the weight pressed upon Buffy's breast again. Angel's concept of time was different than hers; 'a while' could mean anything, but it definitely meant more than a day or two. And she couldn't chase him, because he'd run, and he'd had two hundred plus years of learning how to hide. She could lose him in supermarket crowds. No. Her only chance was to reason with him.

"Okay," Buffy said. "You be good; I'm going to see you soon. I need you to give the phone to your daddy."

"Okay. Bye bye, Mommy."

"Bye bye, sweetheart. I love you."

"I love you, too!" She thrust the phone at Angel.

Angel shook his head. "Tell your Mommy goodbye, honey."

"I already did."

"Well, do it again, okay?" Kaya leveled an unpitying toddler's gaze at him, and he relented. "You didn't tell her goodnight, did you?"

Kaya grinned. "No!" She brought the phone back to her ear. "Goodnight, Mommy."

"What? Kaya, no, honey, I need to—"

Angel brought the phone to his ear. "Goodnight, Buffy."

He folded the phone closed, drowning out her protests.

***

Kaya blew soap bubbles, marveling as the iridescent spheres drifted dreamily about the room. Angel, shirtsleeves rolled up, knelt beside the tub, his mind on more practical matters, like shampoo and dirt under the nails. Faith, sitting on the closed toilet seat, wished Angel wasn't one of those overprotective parents hers hadn't been, so she could smoke in her own damn house.

"So," she said. "Well, there's only one bed. Not like I have a guest room or any of that bullshit. But the couch is okay; it doesn't fold out, but it's pretty comfy. Um . . . I guess you and the kid could take my bed, and I can take the couch . . ."

Angel shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Listen, Sir Galahad, it's not like I'm gonna mind you putting me out—"

Angel lowered his eyes. "That isn't what I meant."

Faith waited. A lot of conversation was waiting, with Angel.

"I haven't . . . I haven't really been sleeping well," he continued, finally. "I don't . . . I don't want to wake her up." He looked up at Faith, hopefully. "Maybe she could sleep with you . . . ?"

Faith cocked an eyebrow. "Do I look like a nanny to you?"

Angel considered for a moment. "Maybe in a few of my more eclectic fantasies . . ."

Faith rolled her eyes. "The munchkin can sleep on the couch; you can sleep with me. And no," she said, cutting off Angel's protest, "don't worry for a damn second about how _I'm_ going to sleep."

"Well," Angel said uncertainly.

"You want to sleep on the couch, don't you, munchkin? You'll be fine, huh?"

Kaya grinned, pleased to be involved in the discourse. "I want to sleep on the couch."

Angel sighed. Women always seemed to be ganging up on him.

"Okay," he said.

Angel made Kaya up a little bed on the couch. He laid down blankets, and her Eeyore, and he took the cushions off the top to make the sleeping surface deeper, and to place on the floor in case she fell out of bed in the middle of the night. He tucked her in, and read her a story, and told her about fifteen times that if she needed him, he'd be right down the hall. She was already dozing by the time Faith dragged Angel off to bed.

"Have you ever been told you're a little overprotective?"

"It's not really a fault, with parenting," he said. Then, to Faith's gaze: "What? It isn't!"

Angel brushed his teeth, and changed into pajamas. Faith's bed was only a double; she didn't need a lot, and she generally did not encourage her gentlemen callers to stay and cuddle. She did not intend to spend much of the night there, though; she had patrol, and that would keep her out pretty late.

That was the plan, at least. Angel turned down the covers, then hesitated, taking in Faith's still fully-dressedness.

"You're not . . . I thought . . ."

Faith motioned vaguely to the great, manic city beyond the walls of her flat. "I have Slayery things to do."

Angel lowered his eyes. "Do you think . . . do you think you could maybe . . . maybe stay? Just . . . just until I fall asleep?"

Faith was surprised enough by the question that she would have agreed even if it hadn't been Angel asking.

"Yeah, okay."

Faith slipped off her boots, switched off the light, and climbed into bed next to Angel. He turned to his side to give her as much room as possible; he was big, and he took up a lot of the small bed. The muscles in his back were taut, Faith could see through the dark, through the material of his t-shirt.

"Um . . . sweet dreams," she said.

***

Angel's admission that he 'hadn't really been sleeping well' turned out to be major understatement. Faith, who had accidentally fallen asleep beside Angel rather than leaving as soon as he nodded off, woke to the most terrible noise she'd ever heard. An unearthly, desperate keen, all pain and grief and sorrow.

Angel was screaming in his sleep. Faith shook him, hard. Anything to stop that noise tearing from his throat. He woke with a rigor and a shock that suggested electrocution more than waking. He trembled, and cried, but the screaming stopped. His fingers, strong and shaking, clawed Faith's body for purchase.

"You . . . you had a bad dream," Faith said. "It's . . . it's okay now. Really."

She patted his shoulder, trying to calm him. A howl rent itself from Angel's chest, and he buried his face against her neck.

"Kill me," he whispered. "Please. Please, just . . . just do it."

Every muscle in Faith's body steeled.

"Shut up," she said.

Angel sobbed against her collar bone. "Faith, kill me, please, I just . . . I can't . . . _please_."

And then she got angry. "Shut up. Shut up. You're Angel, and you're better than this, and you're going to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and pull your shit together, and get on with your life."

"You don't know what I've done. Please do it, Faith. I'll do—I'll do anything, please . . ." He pressed his lips against hers, uselessly, felt numbly for her breast. "I can . . . I'll do anything, please, just, please do it, please just . . ."

She hit him. Hard. Her fist connected with his cheekbone with a cartoonish _crack_ , and Angel tumbled off the bed from the force. On the floor, tangled in twisted sheets, he didn't even act as though he'd noticed; he folded around himself, crying, begging.

Faith jumped off the bed, grabbed Angel by the arm, and dragged him to his feet. She slammed him against the wall so hard that it shook, that his teeth rattled in his skull. He looked at her like a puppy used to being kicked—with fear, and sorrow, but also acceptance. Expectance.

From the next room, a single small wail cut through the night: Kaya, roused from slumber. Angel's attention immediately piqued, and he looked in the direction of the noise.

"You're lucky you're good enough to be worth my time and my fucking patience, Angel. You're a good man; a decent, worthwhile man, and lemme tell you: I know from experience that that's a rare fucking find. And you're stronger than all this _poor me_ bullshit. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't really fucking disappointed right now, because forever you've been the best, most patient, moral person I know, and now you're just giving up."

Angel didn't say anything. Another of Kaya's cries tore through the night.

"That's your kid in there, you asshole. Who do you think's gonna take care of her if you're dead? Cuz it ain't gonna be me."

Angel's jaw tautened. He didn't say anything. He untangled himself from the blankets, and went to take care of his daughter.

***

Kaya munched jammy toast while Angel scrambled eggs. He'd spent the rest of the night sleeping on the floor beside Kaya, and he'd been mostly silent today. His cheek was dark and swollen with bruised flesh. Faith sat on the counter, watching him make the kid breakfast.

Angel set Kaya's plate in front of her, and handed her utensils. She grinned widely and then immediately set upon demolishing her eggs. Angel returned to the kitchen.

"How do you like your eggs?"

Faith had never been asked the question before. "Oh, um, I—don't worry about it. You don't have to cook for me."

Angel's gaze was unwavering.

"Over easy," she relented.

The corner of Angel's mouth turned up as he turned back to the stove.

"I know, ha ha. Just like me, right?" Faith said.

"Thought never crossed my mind," Angel said.

The only noise was the hissing of the eggs on the skillet, the scraping of Angel's spatula against the metal, the delighted munching of the child at the table. When Faith's eggs were finished—they were nearly cartoonish in their perfection—Angel slid them onto a plate, and took the plate to the table. He motioned for her to come and sit down, and she hopped down from the counter and made her way over, cautiously.

"Thanks," she said, sinking to a chair.

Angel handed her a fork. "No problem."

Angel took the chair between the two ladies, sat silently as they ate. Faith eyed him.

"You're not eating?"

He shook his head. "Not hungry."

"We're having breakfast!" Kaya announced.

Angel smiled. "That's right."

After breakfast, Angel helped Kaya take her plate to the kitchen, lifted her up so she could place it in the sink. He sat her on the counter with a sponge so she could dab at the plates before he washed them.

"I'm helping!" she told Faith.

"That's great, kid," Faith said. "How 'bout I loan you out to a restaurant, you can start making some money?"

Kaya giggled.

Angel washed slowly, methodically, his hands sure, his eyes on the job at hand.

"So," he said. "I was kind of an asshole last night."

"Yeah, you were," Faith said agreeably. "But it's understandable. Forgivable, even. I'm great at forgiving now. I had this great mentor who was all about it."

The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of Angel's mouth. "Jesus?"

"Nah, I can't see this guy in sandals."

They shared a smile. Slowly, Angel's faded from his face.

"Look, Faith—"

"Don't get all touchy-feely with me, Angel. I know you like to hug and all, but I'm kind of manlier than that."

"Faith," he said. "I . . . thanks."

"Don't mention it."

***

Waiting was not one of Buffy's skills. As Angel was all too fond of pointing out, patience as a virtue, but it was, from Buffy's perspective, about as useful a virtue as chastity. It worked for some people, in some situations, but not her, right now.

Buffy was peripherally aware that Faith kept an apartment in Scotland—largely because she'd heard Giles griping about paying for it—but she had never actually been there before. Faith wasn't in the book, and the tangled web of paperwork that told the story of the Scoobies' finances just confused her.

Buffy found Dawn in the library, pouring over some enormous, dusty tome.

"I need a favor," she said.

Dawn raised a brow, but not her eyes. "There's a shocker."

"You—you know where Faith lives when she's here, right? You've been there?"

Dawn looked up at her sister, sighed. "Buffy, don't. Really."

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to flush him out," Dawn said. "You need to just . . . just be patient, and wait for him to come to you. Really."

Buffy studied her shoes. "It's not about that. I mean, I need to see Kaya, and I have to talk to Angel about—you know, demony things."

Dawn zeroed in on her sister with an unpitying gaze. "Yeah, 'cuz you're really hurting for people to talk demons with, in this house."

"The mini-Slayers aren't really good for solid tactical advice," Buffy said. "Now that Angel's got his memories back, he is. He could really help—"

"That's crap, and you know it. Buffy, please. Just leave him alone; you're not going to fix this by picking at it. Just let it heal."

***

"If you don't shut that thing up, I'm going to break it over your head."

Angel frowned, examining Faith's cell phone the way you might a new species of insect. It had been trilling for nearly an hour, the screen intermittently lighting up with Angel's own name, a strange omen. Since it was Buffy, who wanted to talk to Angel and not her, Faith refused to answer it.

"I don't know how," he said.

"Just flip it open."

"That'll answer it. Won't it?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know how to turn it off without answering it."

"Well," Faith said. "Then do that."

"I'm not ready to talk to her."

"I will break it over your head," Faith said again.

Angel sighed, and opened the phone.

"Angel?"

He stared at his own name emblazoned on the tiny screen for a long moment before finally bringing the device to his ear.

"Hi, Buffy."

"Are you, like, screening your calls? I've been trying to get a hold of you forever—"

"Yeah, I know."

"So, what? You're just—"

"I'm not really ready to talk to you."

"Well, get over it."

Irritation burned dully in Angel's chest. "It's not that simple."

A long pause. Then: "I know. That's not what I—you're going to have to talk to me. Not about . . . you know, our stuff. About demon stuff. I need you."

"You've been doing just fine without me."

"But I'd be doing better with you. You know the Black Thorn; you've been up against them before."

"And it worked out so well," Angel said. "Anyway, I told you everything I know."

"Angel, please. This isn't about me, it's not about . . . us. It's about fighting the good fight. Come on."

Angel looked at Faith, watching him with some interest. The night he had been walked through the police station, Kate on one side, Buffy on the other, only to find Faith, looking so small, so fragile in her first attempt at redemption, waiting for them at the other end.

Angel sighed. "Okay. I'm on my way."

***

Faith drove Angel to the manor, but refused to go inside. She sat, idling, in the driveway. The house was mostly empty; Kennedy and Yael were leading classes out in the field. Angel found Buffy with her friends in the library, pretending to research.

"Hey," he said, darkening the doorway.

Buffy jumped. "Uh, hi." She stood, smoothed her clothes self-consciously. "I, um—I would have come to . . . let you in, or . . . hi."

"Hi."

Giles and Xander dropped their own books and advanced on Angel.

"Angel," Giles said, his voice hard, his eyes pouring over Angel as they did the dry old words of his books. Angel was reminded of his father, and then stung by the memory.

Angel fanned his hands to show he was unarmed.

"Don't worry," he said. "I was invited."

"Don't be silly," Willow said. "You're our friend! You're—well, this is your home, you don't have to be invited . . ."

Angel caught sight of the bruises still on her neck, and lowered his eyes.

"Still," Xander said. "Better safe than sorry."

"Sometimes the old rules are best," Giles added.

"I invited him," Buffy said. "Since we aren't really getting anywhere with our research, I thought maybe it might be helpful to have the only one of us who's ever actually dealt with the Black Thorn here."

"Just Q and A," Xander said.

"Strictly business," said Giles.

"That's what they tell me," Angel said. He glanced at Buffy. "Isn't that right?"

Buffy straightened. "Absolutely." She could feel the impending silence pressing painfully upon her.

"You look good," she added.

Angel lowered his eyes.

"So!" Willow said. "Um, Angel, have you . . . well, I know you've got other things to do, but we thought maybe you had something to tell us about the Black Thorn."

"Since you're such good friends, and all," Xander said.

Buffy shot him an ugly glance. Angel walked away from the group, studied the books covering the library tables: his eyes scanning the covers, his fingers sliding over the pages.

"I've been thinking about the marks."

Buffy frowned. "You mean the tattoos?"

Angel shook his head. "They're not tattoos. They're put on magically, some kind of spell."

Giles removed his glasses, hovered over them for a moment with his handkerchief, and then replaced them without polishing. "Yes, body modification is a fascinating subject. Have you a point?"

"My point is," Angel said, his tone miraculously level, "marking members of a secret society makes it less secret."

"So the Black Thorn's dumb," Xander said. "Good for us."

Buffy studied Angel's face.

"That's the point," she said. "Right? That they aren't dumb. So we must be missing something."

"They have to be using the marks for something," Angel said. "And I think it's a detriment to us that we don't know what it is."

"I haven't found anything about that in my research," Willow said.

"Not surprising," Giles said. "Given the wealth of information we have on the Black Thorn, total."

"Well," Willow said. "I'm sure that there's information somewhere. We just have to keep looking."

"Slow and steady wins the race?" Angel said.

"You think we should stop looking?" Buffy asked.

"I told you he was evil," Xander said.

Angel was unruffled. "I think we should stop looking in the same places. I understand the desire to keep things in the family, but I think it might be best if we moved out of our comfort zone, on this one."

Buffy frowned. "What do you mean?"

***

Buffy, Angel, and a bushel of tomatoes walked down a street it was not advisable to bring delicate fruits down.

"I thought you said you knew where it was," Buffy said.

"I said I'd know it when I found it."

"I did not dress for walking," Buffy said. "And these are heavy."

"You can bench half a ton," Angel said, adjusting his hold on his own container of tomatoes. "You can carry half a bushel of tomatoes. They probably weigh less than those impractical shoes."

Buffy frowned. "They are not impractical. They're stylish."

"They are impractical. And stop whining."

Buffy stomped a totally practical boot. "They are not! And I'm not stopping until we get there."

Angel nodded at the storefront before them. "We're there."

"Oh," Buffy said. "I guess I'll stop whining, then."

Angel held the door for her, somehow still graceful while precariously balancing his tomatoes. Buffy entered the shop, looked around. The door tinkled closed behind her, and she could feel Angel's familiar presence shadowing her.

"This is . . . nice," Buffy said.

The shop was dimly lit by candles and prehistoric fluorescents. The walls were lined with shelves full of trinkets and curios: love potions, shrunken heads, monkey paws. The usual accoutrement of an occult store. There was no one manning the front; a beaded curtain obscured the back room. Angel made his way for it.

"This looks like a head shop!" Buffy said. "Are you sure—"

"I can tell a real psychic from a fake one," Angel said.

Buffy was about to continue the argument, to ask how, exactly, he'd learned that, but that would only bring up his restored memories, and they really didn't have time for that fight at the moment. So Buffy held her tongue, and brushed aside the tacky curtain, following Angel into the back room. She stopped dead in the doorway. The back room was nothing like the front of the store. It looked like a storage room, or a break room: cement floors, a folding table with a peeling plastic top, an old black and white television with rabbit ears. A dark-skinned teenager with braids to her waist was beating on the television, cursing.

"Bad time?" Angel asked.

The girl looked up at them. "Terrible fucking reception back here."

Angel's dark eyes roamed the bare walls. "It's the cement."

"I gotta get a dish," the girl said. "Shop's closed; mam went to lunch. Back at one."

"I'm here to see you," Angel said. He sat his tomatoes on the folding table. "We brought an offering."

He motioned, and Buffy set her tomatoes down, too. The girl frowned, picked up and examined one of the ripe, red fruits.

"You know, gold is customary. Or cash. Cash is always good."

Angel smiled. "They're good for you. Antioxidants, lycopene. Plus, they're an aphrodisiac."

The girl's brow rose. "Oh yeah?" She studied the fruit with renewed vigor. "All right, then. Have a seat."

Buffy and Angel sat in the folding chairs arranged around the table.

"I'm Angel," Angel said. "This is Buffy."

"Cassandra," the girl said. "What can I do for you? Want your fortune told? How many kids you'll have, all that?"

"No thanks," Angel said. "We're interested in something a little more . . . specific."

"I figured," Cassandra said. "But it's that soft stuff that pays the rent, innit?"

Angel unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the lapels aside to bare his tattoo to the girl. "I need to know what it's for."

Cassandra frowned, and laid her fingers over Angel's tattoo.

"Oh, love," she said. "You're in big trouble."

"So what else is new," Angel said.

"The Black Thorn," Cassandra said. "Not friends you want to keep."

"He's too popular for his own good," Buffy said. "The tattoo. What's it for?"

"It's a complicated spell," Cassandra said. "Multifold, or what have you. Looks like they wanna keep tabs on you—"

Buffy paled. "I knew it. They're tracking you; they're just waiting to—"

"Naw," Cassandra said. "They made it for tracking, but he fucked it up." She tapped the scar breaking the tattoo. "Broke the spell. Still, the other may work."

"The other?" Buffy said.

"Yeah. Multifold, remember? It's also a key."

"A key?" Angel said. "To what?"

Cassandra shrugged.  



	4. Chapter 4

"If it's a key," Angel said, "I want to see what it unlocks."

Dawn frowned. "Maybe you don't. Just, you know, the voice of experience talking."

"I bet we can track the spell," Willow said. "Like, kind of like how the police find people off their cell phones? We just track the magical essence coming off your tattoo, and it'll lead us to whatever the key unlocks."

"It's probably their base of operations," Angel said. "How fast can we do that?"

Willow frowned. "I'm not sure. I can set up the spell in half an hour, but there's no telling how long it'll take to complete—I mean, if it's a complicated, protected spell, then—"

"Whoa," Buffy said. "Angel, no. I don't like the idea of you walking into the bad guy's clubhouse. You could get hurt. Or, you know, dead."

"You should take a Slayer entourage," Kennedy said. "I'd love a crack at the Black Thorn."

"That sounds really subtle," Angel said. "Me walking in with an army of prepubescent girls."

"Hey!" Kennedy said. "I'm post-pubescent!"

"I can't hear this," Xander said.

"I have the key," Angel said. "Just me. I should be fine if I go alone." He caught Buffy's expression, and amended, "I should be fine if I go alone, under the radar."

Angel met Buffy's eyes. That was a look Buffy knew: the _you can trust me, my kind is your kind_ look.

"I think you're being needlessly rash, Angel," Giles said. "You'll tip our hand, and we'll lose the element of surprise, our only advantage, currently."

"I think you underestimate my capacity for discretion," Angel said.

"I have a clear understanding of your capacities," Giles said.

"Whoa!" Willow said. "Let's, just, everybody simmer down." She looked to her friend. "Buffy? What do you think?"

Buffy squirmed. "Maybe he has a point. Angel, I mean." Giles just stared at her. "I mean . . . Angel has, no offense, more experience in this kind of situation . . . I mean, Giles, you're great in, like, a theory kind of way, but Angel's . . . he's a good leader . . ."

Giles laughed. "Oh, yes, forgive me. Let's let the shining example of Angel's last leadership role guide us, shall we? No survivors is always the goal I aim for."

Buffy hadn't realized Angel was still capable of such speed. Before she could even think up a reply to Giles, Angel was on his feet and across the room, his hands driving into Giles' shoulders, lifting the man from his feet and crashing into the wall. The wall shook, raining books and weapons and knickknacks onto the carpet. Giles swung wildly at Angel, and Angel swung back; and soon the two of them were scrambling on top of one another; throwing wild, furiously angry punches back and forth. As soon as the shock had faded enough for her to move, Buffy was between them, holding them each at arm's end. Giles relaxed immediately, realizing the futility of trying to get to Angel when he'd have to go through Buffy first, but Angel strained with all his might against Buffy's intervening hand, lunging for Giles. Buffy spun around to face him squarely, meeting his chest firmly with both hands. Angel stumbled, but was just as quickly on his feet again and pouncing at Giles. Anger flared within Buffy, and she hit him, her fist connecting squarely with his brow bone, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Angel stayed down, looking up at her with blood trickling into his eye.

"I know you guys have . . . differing opinions, and emotional baggage, or whatever," Buffy said. "But you've got to pack it away—or check it, or . . . stow it, or . . . something—because we cannot afford to have our mission derailed by infighting. I mean, fight: yes, but just . . . save it to fight the actual bad guys that—hey!"

They _hey_ was in response to Angel's getting up and leaving in the middle of her rallying and really awesome speech. Buffy glared after him.

"Xander, can you finish up here?" Buffy asked.

She didn't wait for a response before stalking off after Angel.

She found him in the kitchen, leaning against the island, holding a damp washcloth to his bleeding eye. She cleared her throat as she walked into the room; Angel turned slightly to face her. He dropped his compress to the counter like he no longer had need of it, and then returned to facing obstinately away from her.

"Mature," Buffy said.

Angel didn't answer.

Buffy sighed. She snuck a look at his eye, already beginning to swell and color. The bleeding had stopped, at least.

"Did I hurt you?"

"I can hold my own."

Buffy frowned, but didn't push. He hadn't answered her question, but after what she'd done to his face, she figured it wouldn't exactly be sporting to bruise his ego. She edged closer to him, leaning her back against the counter in a mirror of his pose, and then sliding along the slick tile surface until they were mere inches apart. Angel watched her passively, neither moving to accommodate her nor fending her off. They had returned to stasis; no reactions but those required to maintain equilibrium. Really, it was a step forward, better than Angel's violent reaction against Giles and his blatant antagonism of Buffy herself, but it still stung Buffy. She hated when he became complacent; by nature, she preferred motion, and although what she really wanted with Angel was progress, she would have taken him fighting and backpedaling rather than just _waiting_. She hated to see the fight go out of anyone, even if it was for her own benefit.

"Look, Angel," she said finally. "I know that all this has been hard on you . . ."

"Due respect," he said, "but you have no idea how all this has been on me."

"Fine. Fine. I don't know anything; what I did to you, I was one-hundred-percent in the wrong. But it's not about us! It can't—it has to be about the whole world, and yeah, that sucks, but you need to get on board because I need you for this."

Angel didn't say anything, but she could tell, by his expression, his posture, that he was listening.

"I need your help," Buffy continued, gentling her tone. "You're—bar none, you have the most experience, the best tactical mind, of anyone on my team—"

Angel's eyes were on the floor. "But not the strength."

"Yeah, well, that'll come. And it's not the most important thing now, anyway. I mean . . . you're just out of practice, a little out of shape. You just need to get back into it. And anyway, I've got plenty of muscle. All kinds of green, eager muscle. What I need is someone with a military mind, someone who can help me aim all that green, eager muscle."

Angel's eyes lit on her, hesitantly. "Last time . . ."

"You were outmatched," Buffy said. "And you're smart enough to learn from your mistakes."

"Maybe not," Angel said. His mouth twisted, an expression like a Glasgow smile. "I keep coming back to you."

Buffy didn't mean to, not really. Before she even felt the anger, her body was moving, and Angel was sprawled against the counter, blood was dripping onto the counter. The anger hit, followed by a dull panic, as Angel turned around to face her, his palm pressed against his eye, freshly bleeding again.

"Angel," she said.

He sneered, blood smearing. "Right," he said. "Irony."

He took up the compress from the counter, pressed it to his eye. They stood together, in ridiculous silence, as Angel staunched the bleeding. Angel wanted to leave, and Buffy wanted to speak, but neither seemed possible while there was still blood. Some things just bound them together, always.

Finally, Angel set the compress back on the counter. The wound was enraged, his eye slightly sleepy, but there was no more blood. Buffy's hand circled his jaw, directing his movement; she held him still as the fingers of her other hand tested his flesh for soundness.

"It looks okay," she said. "Angel, I—"

Angel pulled away from her. "Forget it."

He started to turn away, but she couldn't let him. He had to hear her. She grabbed him by the arms and spun him around to face her.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just . . . I lost my temper, and I—it's not an excuse, but I—"

Angel's face was an empty room, impassive and featureless. "I said forget it."

Buffy stopped herself right before she hit him again. Anger erupted within her, a sudden, hungry fire.

"Stop being such a baby!" she said. "I know I've messed up, but I love you, and I know you love me, and we need to just . . . we need to just fix it, because we can't—we can't afford to . . . to not . . . Angel, we can fix this."

Angel shook his head. "I don't know if we can."

And he started to walk away again. Panic thrummed through Buffy's veins. This wasn't high school anymore. They were the same species now, and they were _married_ , and there had to be a way to fix it.

Buffy took Angel's wrist, pulled him back. He spun around to face her, surprised, and she kissed him. Angel pulled back, but he was panting, and his pupils were dilated. Buffy dug her fingers into the joint of his jaw, held him still while she kissed him again. She pulled Angel close; his flesh was hot, and she could feel his erection pressing against her. He resisted the kiss, but he wanted her, she could feel it, and she was strong enough to hold him in place. Buffy slid her free hand around Angel's hip, used the leverage to spin him around, to drive him against the counter. It hit him just below the small of his back, and he made a small noise of protest, or pain. Buffy left his mouth to press kisses to his face, throat, chest. Her hands slipped through his clothing, loosing buttons, his belt buckle. Angel squirmed, bringing up his hands to block hers. Buffy took his right hand in her left, arrested its motion. She was the Slayer, and he was human, and he'd grown soft, untrained, in the past four years. She was much stronger. Buffy held his arm tight, both keeping his hand from intercepting hers, and further pinning him against the counter. His left hand, the weaker hand, she brushed absently away whenever it flew into her path.

For a moment, he caught her eye. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning darkly. But he didn't say anything.

Half of his shirt buttons were undone, baring bits of his torso. But with his arm pinned, she wouldn't be able to remove his shirt, so she moved on. One-handed, clumsy, Buffy struggled with his belt buckle, then his zipper. Angel writhed away from her, a growl percolating deep in his chest. Buffy was surprised; she hadn't heard him make a noise like that in four years. She'd supposed that he couldn't, but apparently it was just part of the vampire language he'd forgotten. Her hand slid against his cock; he was hard, anxious for her. She pushed his jeans down past his hips, just baring him enough to be practical.

Angel yanked against her hold on his arm, tried to pull away, but she had him boxed in and anchored against the counter at the spine; even if he'd been strong enough to get his arm back, he still would have been trapped.

Buffy kissed him desperately, over and over. He was tight all over; he couldn't relax.

"Please," she said. "Just . . . I can fix this. Please. I love you; I can fix this."

Angel didn't say anything. Buffy struggled for a moment to bare herself, and then to mount him; she used the counter to pull herself up, but with one hand it was hard, and she was clumsy, and she hurt them both. With one arm, she braced herself on the counter, so Angel didn't have to bear all the weight; with the other, she held his arm at the wrist, the tendons iron-hard beneath her grasp.

***

Angel was absorbed in his garden, on his hands and knees as he tilled the dark earth. He had been thinking about dormant bulbs blooming into bright flowers, about how the earth gives, and nothing sleeps forever, and he had missed the lethal shine of buried glass. And Buffy was in the kitchen tidying up after lunch, and the next thing she knew, out of nowhere, Angel was tripping into the kitchen, his arm clutched to his chest, and there was so much blood, dark blood, and he was having trouble standing. And Buffy could never remember being so frightened in her life, which was ridiculous because he died once, and once she was there while he was dying, but she had never before seen that expression on his face, abject fear and absolutely no plan. He just looked to her, and Buffy had to quell her fear and take him in her hands and tell him that everything was going to be all right, don't worry, she could fix it.

***

She released him, collapsing against the counter herself, weak with sated lust. Angel turned away from her, walked away from her, and silently righted his clothing. Buffy's world shimmered, and it seemed, in her drugged state, that it took him ages to turn around.

"Angel," she said.

He glanced at her, but didn't really look. He was flushed, and he wiped fitfully at a sheen of wetness on his cheek. His bottom lip was swollen. Buffy's first thought was maybe it was bruised, but she didn't recall it being bruised before. She'd hit him higher than that, she thought. But perception was wavering, just now.

"I'm going to have Dawn drive me back to Faith's," he said softly.

Buffy pushed herself off the counter, to her feet, and found it slightly difficult to bear her own weight.

"I'll drive you."

Angel's gaze focused on her. "I don't want you to."

Buffy was stung, and didn't know what to say. She walked toward him, but he evaded her, walking just out of her grasp.

"Just call, maybe, the next time you need me for something," he said, and then, a skip in time, and Buffy found herself alone.

***

Angel entered Faith's home as quietly as he could, but he needn't have bothered. Kaya was not in evidence, and Faith was on the couch watching an eighties action movie on grainy basic cable.

"Hey," she said, rolling a handful of microwave popcorn into her mouth.

"Hey," he said. "Where's Kaya?"

"I put the brat in my room," Faith said. "She's sleeping."

Angel checked on his daughter. She was curled up on the bed under her blankets from home, sleeping soundly. Angel smoothed her blankets, pressed a kiss to her forehead. He sat beside her for a long moment, watching her sleep. He remembered sleeping beside Buffy, her stomach swollen with life, sleeping with his hands curled over the bump to feel his child moving, his child's heartbeat. He remembered, too, the night he'd taken Buffy's virginity—kissed her, and bared her, and laid her down beneath him. And the night she'd taken his virginity—how scared he'd been, how excited, how she had taken him in her hands and taken charge. Years apart. These things, they'd happened years apart. How insane to have mutually exclusive life experiences.

Angel brought a hand to his bruised face. She'd broken his lip open, kissing him. Or he'd done it. It was so difficult to assign blame, sometimes. On the whole, they were equally at fault.

"I could have said no," Angel said.

The waiting darkness was unable to hold his words, and they slipped away to nothing, just another diaphanous aspect of the night. Just as well. If lives of experience taught you anything, it was that the conditional has no real bearing upon history. Your life is the things you do, or don't. The things you prevent, or withstand.

Angel sat beside his daughter, watched her sleep.

"Try not to fall in love, sweetie," he said. "Just a bit of fatherly advice."

When he was able to leave her, Angel closed his daughter carefully inside the dark chamber and went to sit with Faith on the couch.

"Thanks," he said.

"Thanks, nothing. You're the one's gonna be sharing the bed with her." She tipped the popcorn bag in his direction. He shook his head. "Saved you some pizza," she said, and nodded toward the kitchen, where a grease-stained pizza box sat waiting for him.

Angel slouched into the couch cushions. "Not hungry."

Faith shrugged, and munched her popcorn, eyes on the television. Angel watched, too, and for a while they just sat together in silence, watching the corny, outdated violence.

"What happened to your face?" Faith asked finally.

"Nothing."

"Little woman popped you one, huh?"

"Two," Angel said.

Faith snorted. "Figures."

She angled the popcorn towards him again. This time, he took some, letting the salty butteriness bathe his tongue.

"We slept together," he said.

For the first time since Angel had come in, Faith's eyes left the TV. "You and B?"

He nodded.

"Before or after she beat you up?"

"After. During. I'm not sure."

"Well, she is your wife," Faith said. When that failed to provoke a response, she tried, "How was it?"

"I don't know. Complicated."

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for insisting on having a relationship with the woman you're boning." Angel didn't say anything. Faith said, "Was it worth it?"

"I don't know. No. Probably not. These things usually aren't."

Faith caught his gaze. "But it was, right? Before? The first time?"

Angel's muscles ached, and he let himself slide further into the couch cushions.

"The first time," he said. "Yes. It was worth it."

"So, lemme get this straight," Faith said. "It was worth your soul, hell, a big pile of dead people . . . and now you don't know if it's worth a little complication?"

"I don't . . . I don't think we're the same, anymore. I mean—not the same as people, not the same together . . ."

"That sounds like a load of crap to me, Angel."

Angel sighed. "You're right. It probably is."

They fell back to silence, watching the flickering of explosions and car chases emanating from the television's small screen. Organically, without cause or explanation, Faith rested her arm across Angel's shoulder, let his weary weight fall against her.

"This is not a hug," she said.

Angel had to fight to keep the smile off his face. "Of course not."

***

Angel had said to call. But if she called, he could just avoid her, and avoidance was not going to make things better between them. And so Buffy showed up, without calling, at Faith's the next morning.

Faith, hair mussed, eyes bleary, answered the door.

"B," she said.

Buffy gave her the once over. "Late start this morning?"

Faith stretched irritably. "Your husband? Not as comfy as I'd like. Plus he steals the covers."

Buffy went ashen, and Faith had to fight to keep the smile from her face.

"I—is he here?" Buffy asked weakly.

"Hold on," Faith said. "Lemme check."

She slammed the door before Buffy had a chance to respond.

Angel was in the living room, mere feet behind the conversation at the door, helping Kaya get dressed. He frowned.

"I do not steal the covers."

Faith shrugged. "I had to make sure she got the picture. Blondes are notoriously slow."

"You sure it's a good idea? Pulling her tail?"

"Probably not," Faith said. "But I've never been one for the good idea. Plus, after what she did to you last night? I figure she deserves a little return serve."

Angel didn't say anything.

"So," Faith said. "Do you wanna see her, or should I just leave her standing out there?"

"I don't want to see her," he said. "But I'll—let her in."

Faith let Buffy in. She navigated the apartment like a mother visiting her son's dorm room for the first time.

"Um, nice . . . blinds," Buffy said.

Faith looked around a moment before finally landing on what Buffy was talking about. "Oh, yeah. I think they came with the place." She looked at Angel. "You didn't put those up, did you?"

He shook his head.

"Yeah," Faith said. "They came with the place."

Kaya squirmed impatiently until her father had finished tying her shoes, and then she burst across the room to her mother.

"Mommy!" she said, fastening herself around Buffy's knees.

There was a pain in Buffy's chest. "Hi, sweetie. How are you?"

"We had waffles!"

"That's great." She looked to Angel. "Can I talk to you?"

Angel didn't move. "I told you to call."

"I didn't want to give you the option of hanging up on me. Can we talk?"

Angel crossed the room to her. He angled a look back at Faith. "Do you mind . . . ?"

"Well, yeah," Faith said. Angel just stared stonily at her, and she relented. "Fine. Come on, kid. Let's give Mommy and Daddy some privacy."

Kaya went bouncing after Aunt Faith as she left the room.

"She looks really good," Buffy said. "Kaya. You two are getting along here?"

"She's fine," Angel said. "She's a small child; they pretty much exist in a state of fine. You said you wanted to talk to me?"

Buffy fidgeted. "I—yeah. Yes. I thought maybe—that is, I came to invite you . . . I thought maybe you'd want to come train. With me." Angel crossed his arms over his chest. Buffy babbled on. "I mean, I need to train, because, you know, big evil, and you were saying how—how you wanted to get back into shape. I mean, like, top fighter shape, not, like, you're fat now or anything . . ."

She drifted off, search his face hopelessly for clues.

"Kaya," he said finally.

"Oh, um, Faith could watch her—" She caught Angel's expression and changed course. "Or, or Dawn. Dawn would love to watch her."

Angel considered for a few moments. Buffy's ribcage was assaulted by butterflies. Really big ones. Mothras.

Finally, Angel said, "Okay."

***

She worked him out slow, at first. Stretching, a run through the glen surrounding the house. Angel was soft for a fighter, yes, but he wasn't in bad shape for a human—he was used, pre-the restoration of his memories, to taking long hikes through the uncultivated wilderness surrounding the house; to chasing after a hyper two-year-old—and he had no problem keeping up with Buffy. Properly warm, she started with some hand-to-hand. Mistake. Angel was skilled, but he was out of practice and lacked the vampire strength he usually relied on in these situations. The end result was frustration, which translated to reckless bursts of no brakes muscle. He got his ass kicked, and he hated every minute of it.

Buffy, disappointed, stopped them much sooner than she would have liked for a water break.

"I'm fine to keep going," Angel said, panting.

"Humans need water to survive, Angel. When you exercise, you—"

"I'm human," Angel snapped. "Not brain damaged. Don't patronize me."

Buffy kept her mouth shut.

Angel, grimly determined, was ready for more hand-to-hand, but Buffy decided to change gears. He was punishing himself, not enjoying any of it. And training together used to be their best time: they both enjoyed and excelled in it, and they could be physical without anxiety. Buffy decided to try something that was less a match of might than a battle of brain.

"You remember how to use one of these, don't you?"

Angel let his hand work around the hilt, feeling for perfect grip. "I seem to remember which end to hold."

"Well, that's half the battle, there."

Buffy picked up her own sword, and squared off with him. They began like a fencing match: polite, useless touches. Buffy grew a little flustered by Angel's intense focus on her; she'd forgotten how much of his game tended to be reading his opponent, forgotten how deeply and easily he was able to read her. For the first time, she worried about Angel overtaking her, and she struck out more offensively, forcing Angel to take a few steps back. To her surprise, he countered cleverly, gracefully, and immediately, and soon she found herself out of breath.

Angel was breathing hard, too, but he was also smiling.

"What's so funny?" Buffy asked.

"I never noticed before," Angel said. "No frame of reference, I guess. But I see it now. You've gotten soft."

Buffy's cheeks burned. "I have not."

"Yeah, you have. You're so used to teaching all these little girls the basics that you're not used to upper-level thinking anymore. You're more a Watcher than a warrior, these days."

"That isn't true! Take it back!"

In her fury, Buffy made a move that was all force, no forethought. Angel used her momentum and her momentary blindness to knock her sword from her hand.

"For all intents and purposes," Angel said, retrieving her sword, "my warrior's been in a coma for four years. And I'm still kicking your ass. What does that say about you?"

He held her sword out to her. Buffy just stared at the dim gleam of the metal, her distorted reflection.

***

Buffy slept fitfully, Angel smoldering under her skin like infection. "I am not soft," she muttered, over and over again, into the empty night. Angel's smile, that damn bulletproof quirk of his mouth, the one that Angelus had, too. _I never noticed before. No frame of reference, I guess._ Buffy's flesh burned with fever, beads of sweat pooling at her clavicle, her navel, the dent at the top of her lips.

When morning came, Buffy stumbled out of bed with sleep dragging from her ankles, her mouth dry. How smart could her body possibly be if it would steal all her body's moisture for icky sweat?

Buffy had about five seconds to ponder this before her world swirled into a blur of color and light. Suddenly, a jolt of pain, a jolt in perspective; suddenly, she was on her knees, the tile incredibly cold against her overheated flesh. Her mouth was so dry, and she was aware of little tears of perspiration running down her back. A pull at her stomach, and a sudden spasm like choking. Buffy's shaking fingers fumbled to raise the toilet seat. When she was finished, Buffy lay her poor febrile body down on the painfully cold tiles, bile burning the back of her throat.

***

Buffy worked hard not to think of Angel. Angel was making her sick; obviously, she had some kind of Angel allergy, and she just needed to get over it. She needed to get her head in the game.

Buffy took a long shower, took her time getting ready. Her stomach was still weak when she reached the kitchen, so she skipped breakfast and went right to her training session. She concentrated on the routine, concentrated on not thinking about Angel. One-two-kick-no Angel. Pivot-step-kick-no Angel.

Everything was going fine until Yael stepped out of formation and came to the head of the class.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked.

Buffy was about to ask her what she meant, but then her head was swimming, and her world blurred again. Color and light. Falling.

***

Buffy woke up on the living room couch, the looming faces of Kennedy, Willow, and Dawn enormous in her view. She started, and they backed off, dissolved into a din of chattering.

"Oh my God," Willow said. "Buffy, you scared us! Are you okay?"

"You should probably keep better hydrated," Dawn said. "It's getting hot out there."

"Geez," Kennedy said. "Are you succumbing to old age already? What are you, thirty?"

Buffy glared, struggled into a sitting position. " _No_. And I'm fine."

"Except for your barf fest this morning?" Dawn said. "Yeah, I heard that. Or—you're not bulimic, are you? Should I be being more sensitive? Maybe organizing an intervention?"

"I'm fine," Buffy said. "It's just a bug, or something. Not life-threatening."

"You should still maybe go to the doctor," Willow said.

Buffy was about to explain how she didn't have time for that, and besides, she was the Slayer, like there was a virus that could kill her when the legions of hell couldn't, but then Kennedy said, "Yeah, I hear the elderly require frequent doctor's visits," and she changed her mind.

"I guess you could help an old woman out," Buffy said, smiling sweetly, "by taking over my classes until I'm a hundred percent again, huh, Ken?"

Kennedy frowned, but Willow was already assuring Buffy that of course, Kennedy would be glad to, and so of course now Buffy _had_ to go to the doctor.

***

Buffy swung her legs, but that was only amusing for a second. She considered getting up and rifling through some of the drawers tongue depressors and cotton balls were always popping out of, but she wasn't sure how much the back of her gown left exposed. Gah. You were in the waiting room forever, and then once you got back to the exam room, there was only more waiting.

"I'm really fine," Buffy said as the door opened, not even waiting until the doctor had passed into sight, "Just a little worn down. But I don't have time to lay off work, so if you could just give me a vitamin shot or something, that'd be great."

Dr. Morgan looked up from Buffy's chart. "Still no love lost between you and the medical profession, I see."

"Well, you know, I'm busy. And you people are always stabbing me." Buffy rubbed the pit of her elbow, the pinprick bruise marking the spot the nurse had taken blood from.

"You'll be happy to know that you aren't sick," Dr. Morgan said. "Have you and Angel been trying?"

"Trying to wh—oh no." Dr. Morgan was looking at her oddly; Buffy had to force her way through the quagmire of emotions and _say something_. "Um, yeah, we were—we were kind of trying, but then—now might not be the best time for that. Are you sure I'm pregnant? It's not, like, something I ate?"

Dr. Morgan smiled wryly. "Very sure. On the plus side, I'm going to grant your wish."

"Huh?"

The doctor handed her a bottle of prenatal vitamins. "I'm going to give you some vitamins, and send you back to work."

***

Buffy considered going to Faith's to talk to Angel, but then chickened out. Walking into the kitchen, however, she found the choice had been made for her.

"Mommy!"

Kaya and Dawn were at the kitchen table, coloring.

"Hey," Dawn said. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're looking kind of worse now that you've been to the doctor. Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

Buffy set her purse and the vitamins on the island, and went over to hug her daughter. She breathed in the girl's sweet, familiar scent.

"He's here?" she asked Dawn.

Dawn's eyes were glued to the prenatal vitamins her sister had just set down. "Whoa, Buffy—"

Buffy's eyes flashed. "Not now. Is he here, or not?"

Dawn's mouth pinched, and for a moment she held Buffy in an unpitying stare. Finally, she relented, though her expression suggested this wasn't over.

"Angel?" Dawn said. "Yeah, he came over to do some training. He's in the barn, I think."

They had converted the property's barn into a training facility—weapons, equipment, padded floors, the works. Buffy found Angel there alone, going a few rounds with the punching bag.

"Hey," he said. "You okay? Dawn said you were at the doctor . . ."

"Complete disclosure," Buffy said. "That's what you want, right? I don't think of your feelings, I don't think of repercussions or how you'll react, I just—I just tell you everything. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Angel turned from the punching bag, turned to face her. "It is."

"I'm pregnant."

At first, before he could steel himself, Angel smiled enormously. His face animated; his eyes lit up. But soon he'd reined himself in, and he looked concerned, wary.

"Are you sure?"

"I went to the doctor," she said.

"Now . . . now isn't . . ."

"Yeah, the timing could be better," Buffy said. "But I thought—do you still want it?"

That shocked Angel from his stupor. He met her eyes. "What? Of course I do."

"Even if—" She hated saying it. For days it had been an ever present thought, a disease she carried inside her constantly. But saying it made it real. "Even if you and I can't work things out?"

"Of course I do," Angel said again.

Buffy tried to be cool, but she could feel herself doing the stupid teenage girl thing: the big, glistening anime eyes; the parted, breathless mouth. She took a step toward Angel, reached out for him.

Angel turned back to the bag, squared up. His fist touched the bag so softly there was no movement; there was no sound.

"Buffy," Angel said, "about us . . . ?"

When she'd first seen him, in his tuxedo, coming to take her to the prom. Her heart expanding, her breath stolen. A world of comforting lies and possibility.

"I want to be with you," Angel said. "But I'm not sure it's a good idea. Buffy, when I was—before—I trusted you. Absolutely. I didn't know any better. And you took advantage of my trust. I realize—I do—that you thought you were acting in my best interests. But that isn't a partnership. It's—it's something else, and I can't go back to that. I know better, now. I want more than that."

Angel drew back his arm again, but his motion was arrested before he could come in contact with the bag again. Buffy wanted to tell him all the reasons she'd done what she'd done, all the reasons he should forgive and love her again. Instead, she walked up behind Angel at the punching bag, placed her hands on his shoulders. With her hands, she gently guided him into position.

"You're dropping your shoulder," she said.

Left, right, right. Perfect, unpunctuated punches. The bag swayed like a hanged man, and Angel let his hands fall to his sides. Buffy rested her palm at the nape of his neck, feathered her fingers through his hair. Angel bowed his head, bore her touch.

"I have a doctor's appointment on Thursday," she said. "You know, the—for the baby. Do you—I thought maybe you'd want to come."

"I'll be there."

Buffy went to leave. Angel turned after her.

"Do you—do you maybe want Kaya tonight?" he said.

She smiled. "Sure. I'd love that."

"Maybe we should wait. To tell her, you know, about the baby. Maybe . . . maybe until you're showing. It'll be easier for her to understand that way. If there's a change she can see."

"Okay. Whatever you think."

Buffy turned to go again. She was steps from leaving the barn, from stepping into the sun, when Angel's hand encircled her wrist, tugged her back. She looked at him questioningly, but before she could open her mouth to speak, Angel had drawn her against him and was kissing her, softy, hesitantly. Buffy was shocked, too shocked to move, and before she could come around, Angel had released her. He stepped back, flushed and flustered.

"So," he said. "I'll, uh—I'll just . . . come by. Tomorrow. For Kaya."

"Okay."

Angel tripped on his way out of the barn, righted himself awkwardly. Buffy watched him go, the taste of him still in her mouth.

***

"Buffy's pregnant."

"Yeah?" Faith said. "Is it yours?"

Angel jumped. "What? Yes. I mean—of course it is. Yes."

Faith fanned her hands in surrender. "Just checking. Well, good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, good. I support anything that results in more people with your DNA running around."

Angel smiled. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," Faith said. "So. Does this mean you and the little woman have patched things up, or . . . ?"

"No. I don't know. I guess . . . I guess I figured, all along, that we were going to fix things eventually, but . . . all this does is give us a deadline, I guess."

"You don't have to get married to the mother of your kid, you know." Faith frowned. "Well, I guess you're already married, but what I'm saying is—"

"But I want to be," Angel said. "I want to be a family and her husband and I don't want to feel this anger and resentment and fear every time I see her, because I love her and I want to be with her. But she took this enormous thing, my life, and she didn't even ask me, and I just—any second she could take something from me again, and I might not even know."

"That's why I don't go in for all this long-term shit," Faith said.

"I think our case is . . . unique."

"I don't think so. Sounds like the same problem I've had in every relationship I've ever been in. That whole tree falling in the woods thing."

Angel frowned. "What?"

"You know, 'if he cheats on me, and I don't know about it, is it still cheating?' Knowing everything? Generally doesn't make you happy."

***

Given their recent history, Buffy would have preferred to have more clothes on. Angel, though, seemed to notice neither her near nakedness, nor her tension. Buffy clung the little paper robe against her bare breasts—and it _would_ have to be _cold_ in here—and watched her husband's passive inspection of the room. His eyes rested on the foreign implements, on the posters on the wall—tiny-fonted treatises on fetal alcohol syndrome and how to give yourself a breast exam—but Buffy could tell by his relaxed expression that he wasn't really reading them. Angel got invested in reading, drawn in; the concentration was always apparent in his expression, his posture.

"I don't really like the idea of you having a male doctor," Angel said, pretending to read a poster on Kegels exercises.

"You never minded before."

Angel looked at her humorlessly, proprietarily.

"He's the only OB/GYN in fifty miles," Buffy said. "And he was good before, with Kaya. Don't you think?"

After a beat, Angel nodded. Buffy tried to decide whether this was a step forward, his being jealous, or not. Before she could press him, Dr. Keene entered. Buffy couldn't imagine what Angel could possibly be jealous about; Dr. Keene was over seventy, and completely unthreatening in a grandfatherly sort of way.

"Well, well," he said. "Congratulations are in order."

Buffy smiled. "Thank you."

"And how's that beautiful baby girl I delivered?"

"She's good," Buffy said. "She's two now."

Angel produced a photograph from his wallet.

"Two years old, my goodness," Dr. Keene said. "And my, what a beauty. I hope you're prepared, young man; she's going to be a heartbreaker."

Angel took the picture back.

"I expect so," he said. "It runs in the family."

***

After her doctor's appointment, Buffy drove Angel back to the manor. He'd wanted her to take him home, but she'd asked for some time to rest, and he had immediately acquiesced. But Buffy had no sooner rested her head on her pillow than her bedroom door had burst open.

"Five minutes," Buffy said, without opening her eyes. "That's all I'm asking for, guys. Seriously."

"We've got the results from Willow's spell tracker thing," Kennedy said. "Thought you'd want to know."

Buffy cracked one eye opened. "We have a location?"

"We do. And you're gonna love it."

***

Buffy frowned at the map. "I don't get it. Tell me what I'm looking at."

Willow smoothed the map over the kitchen table, illustrated points with her hands.

"Okay," she said. "So this is us, here. And this, over here, this is downtown. And this is the demon part of town. And this," she indicated the area lit up by her spell, "is the really posh part of town with all the McMansions."

"Angel's key opens a McMansion?" Buffy asked.

"Not all that surprising," Angel said. "Members of the Black Thorn get a lot of power from their evil; that tends to translate to big money."

"I say we get the team ready," Kennedy said. "Full on ambush."

"Full on stupid, you mean," Angel said. "All muscle and no recon? That sounds like a really great way to get a lot of people killed."

"You'd know," Kennedy said.

Buffy stepped between them before there was blood.

"Angel's right," she said. "We need to approach this cautiously."

"I have the key," Angel said. "I'll go in, alone, and see what we're dealing with."

"You'll get killed," Kennedy said.

"I'll be careful."

Angel met Buffy's eyes. She squirmed.

"It's going to be dangerous," she said weakly.

"I can do dangerous," he said. "Buffy, we need to know what we're dealing with; sending me in to do recon is the best option. I'm the only one who won't trigger their spell; it has to be me. Just me."

 _I love you. I'm not sure if I trust you._ Buffy sighed. "Okay. What's the plan?"

***

Buffy sat, nervously watching, as Angel strapped on weapons beneath his clothes.

"I'm not going to need them," he said. "Just a precaution."

"I should go with you," she said.

Angel zeroed an unpitying look at her. "We've been through this. You can't."

"I know! I know. But I'm scared, and it's your fault, so you have to deal with my histrionics."

Angel looked at her gravely for a long second before cracking the tiniest shadow of a smile. "Okay."

Buffy got up, approached him. "You have to come back here when you're finished. So I know you're okay." Angel's face began to soften, and Buffy hastily added, "And, you know, so I can pump you for information."

"Okay," Angel said. "But you have to do something for me."

"Okay."

"My solo mission? Is really going to be solo. After I leave, you just go to sleep, and don't worry about me. You don't tail me, magically or vicariously, or anything."

Buffy bit into the flesh of her lip. That wasn't really how she operated; she was at her best when she was in control.

"Or else," Angel said, "no deal."

Buffy sighed. "Okay. Fine. You're on your own. But you have to do one more thing for me."

Angel cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Before she could stop herself, she had her arms around him. "Don't die."

***

Buffy had promised Angel that she'd go to bed, go to sleep, let him complete his mission on his own, with no interference or worrying. No interference she could do—though it was a challenge—but no worrying was off the menu. Buffy lay awake, watching the moonlight constellations on her ceiling, each Rorshach moonblot devolving into an atrocity that could be befalling Angel. Right this moment, while she was tethered by forced trust to their bed.

Marriage was hard.

And so, though it was very late, Buffy was not sleeping when Angel got home. He tripped into the room and headed straight to the bathroom. The silhouette of his normally graceful frame jerking in the dim light sent a thrill of fear up Buffy's spine, and in an instant she was crowding the bathroom door, crowding Angel's personal space. He was bent over the sink, his back to her, the water running dark.

"Are you okay?"

"I have news."

The words were unpleasantly long and round, and Buffy turned on the light so she could see the damage to his mouth. Angel flinched at the light, then returned to rinsing the blood from his mouth, as raw and dripping as the first bite of a plum.

"I don't care," Buffy said. "I mean, I care, but not right now. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll care. Right now, I only need to know you're okay."

Angel turned the water off, turned to look at his wife.

"Yeah," he said, softly. "I'm okay."

Buffy relaxed, but not a lot. He didn't look okay. His face was a nest of bruises, and he was holding his right arm tight against his ribs.

"Okay," Buffy said. "Good. I . . . I guess you didn't just get in, get out, huh?"

Angel shook his head. Buffy got the first aid kit out from under the sink.

"Here," she said, and gently guided Angel against the sink, the tile at the small of his back. "I'm just going to take a look, okay?"

Angel nodded, and Buffy got gauze and cotton and alcohol from the kit, and began gently tending to the bruises and cuts on his face.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "I mean—do you want something for pain? We have morphine . . ."

Angel shook his head. "I'm okay."

Buffy's fingers on the strange new territory of Angel's face. Like walking into your kitchen and finding a car parked there. She tried to be gentle and he tried to be stoic, but her touch rent sighs and moans from him. Disinfecting an angry gash just breaths from his eye, and Angel cried out. Buffy held the alcohol firmly to the wound, but threaded her other hand through his hair, her palm cradling the nape of his neck, steadying him. Holding him fast.

Angel looked much better with the blood washed off, with the wounds bandaged and sutured. Buffy let her fingers rest on Angel's hurt arm.

"I need to take a look," she said.

Angel gave her a pound animal's look, but then extended his arm. Buffy tried pushing Angel's sleeve up to the elbow so she could have a better look, but Angel flinched so hard that she cut the fabric away, instead. The flesh was mottled with bruising, the contour slightly unsymmetrical. Buffy let her fingers rest at the epicenter of the bruising, and the flesh spasmed; Angel took in a breath sufficient for undersea diving.

"It's broken," she said. "You need a doctor. I can take you to the emergency room—"

Angel shook his head. "No."

"Angel—"

"I'm not saying 'never,'" Angel said. "Tomorrow. You can take me to see Dr. Morgan tomorrow."

Buffy hesitated. She took in Angel's drawn, ashen face; he probably just wanted to lie down and sleep through the worst of the pain. That was a feeling she was familiar with.

"Okay," she said. "But it needs to be wrapped, at least."

Angel nodded. He allowed her to sit him down and bind his injured arm with bandages, sat still except through the involuntary shaking of his muscles. Buffy asked again about morphine, and again he said no. When she'd finished with his arm, Buffy helped Angel to his feet, packed away the first aid kit, and switched off the light. Angel tucked the wounded arm against his side again, walked with her into their bedroom.

"Will you help me undress?" he asked.

Inside her chest, Buffy's breath turned to stone. She was unable to speak, so she just nodded. Angel was still as she stripped him, her fingers clumsy; she was overly conscious of his injuries, overly conscious of the last time she had undressed him in this room. That had been a different lifetime; how strange to have memories from a different lifetime.

Buffy felt awkward, needled, so she labored over carefully folding Angel's discarded clothing, even the shirt, which she'd ruined with the tiny scissors from the first aid kit, and would have to be thrown away. Angel studied her movements, his brow creased with concern.

"It is okay if I sleep here tonight, isn't it?"

Buffy started. "Of course it is. It's—I mean, it's your bed."

The covers were already mussed from Buffy's pretending not to be worried bit. Angel and his broken arm didn't bother with pajamas; he just slipped naked beneath the sheets, gingerly worked to find the most comfortable position. Buffy stared after him for so long that he opened his eyes, slanted a look at her.

"You're sure it's okay?"

Buffy started. "What? Yes. Don't be silly. Yes. Totally okay."

She didn't have a choice now. Buffy padded the gallows route to her side of the bed. Angel's back was to her; her eyes wandered the familiar broad slope of his shoulders, and she thought of the panic of virgin brides. But that wasn't her fear. Sex was easy, now that they no longer had that curse thing to contend with. It was the other stuff that was hard.

Buffy thought of his first days with her in Scotland, his body broken, his memory gone. How he needed her to fall asleep. Buffy lay down beside her husband, rested her hand in the valley between his shoulders. The thrum of his heartbeat pulsed into her palm. Angel moaned quietly, but beneath her, his body relaxed.

***

Dr. Morgan gave Angel a shot of Demerol before setting his arm. Angel, who was big but didn't even like taking Tylenol, had to be helped to the car, and fell asleep before Buffy had him buckled in. The house was remote, and they had a good long drive; Angel slept through it all, and Buffy drove nervously in the resulting silence, constantly looking over to make sure he was okay.

Back home, Buffy woke Angel—groggy, confused—and half-carried him into the house. The foyer was mostly empty; Dawn was curled up with a book in the armchair by the window, and a few ex-Potentials were lounging about the couch. Buffy shooed the junior Slayers away and deposited Angel's large, drugged body on the vacated sofa. He slipped down into the cushions, his spine liquid.

"Dawn," Buffy said. "Come sit with him a minute, would you? I need to grab his prescriptions from the car."

Dawn abandoned her book and came to sit by Angel. He looked up at her with vague, nearsighted interest.

"Dawnie," he slurred. "I remember before you were here."

"Like, before I was born? 'Cuz you're really old, so."

Angel frowned. "No. I remember before—before they made you. When it was just Buffy. I'm not sure why that is."

Dawn studied him curiously. "Most people don't remember that, you know."

"I'm selfish, though," Angel said. "I kept all the memories I had of her. Even the ones they tried to take away."

Buffy returned, letting the door swing carelessly, noisily shut behind her; she was distracted by the papers in her hand.

"Dawn, I forget which of these is for what . . ."

"I'm sure they'll tell you at the pharmacy."

Buffy looked sheepishly up at her sister. "I was hoping maybe they could tell _you_ at the pharmacy . . ."

Dawn sighed. She hopped off the sofa and snatched the scripts from Buffy.

"Fine," she said. "But I'm taking your car. And. I'm doing this for Angel, not for you."

"Fine," Buffy said, relinquishing the keys.

Dawn left, screeching out of the driveway on Buffy's tires. Buffy sighed, and went to tend to Angel. She knelt beside him.

"Come on, sweetie. Let's go upstairs and lay down until our drugs wear off."

Angel squinted at her.

"Buffy," he said.

"That's right. I'm Buffy. And we're leaving."

Angel reached up to touch her, his fingers tracing the contours of her cheek, smoothing back her hair.

"You're pretty," he said.

"And you're stoned," Buffy said, rolling her eyes. "Come on."

She slipped an arm around him, hauled him to his feet. She dragged him up the stairs, into their bedroom, where she let him collapse on the mattress. She took of his shoes, helped him under the covers. Angel squirmed into a comfortable position, his eyes drifting closed. Buffy was on her way out when Angel moaned softly into his pillow; she stopped, came to sit by him on the bed.

"Are you okay? Dawn'll be back soon with your medicine; there's one for pain, I think."

Angel shifted fitfully, searching painfully for sleep.

"Buffy," he said.

Buffy placed her hand on Angel's shoulder, trying to still him.

"We have to—there's things I need to tell you," Angel said.

"About the Black Thorn? No, that can wait. Right now, you need to rest."

Angel twisted uncomfortably against his pillow.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Honey, it's okay. Your health is more important than—"

"No, I just—love you. I'm sorry and I love you."

Buffy could feel her pulse at every inch of her body, a dizzying throb. For a moment, her entire body was alive with this one thought.

"I love you, too."

Beneath her hand, Angel's chest rose and fell with long, even breaths.  



	5. Chapter 5

Buffy got Kaya up and dressed. Then she took her daughter down to the morning still kitchen, and let Kaya help her make French toast.

Kaya was syrup-sodden, happily munching on her third plate of French toast, when Dawn tramped into the kitchen.

"I hope some of that's for me," Dawn said, depositing Angel's prescriptions on the island.

"Um . . . of course it is," Buffy said, immediately slapping some more pre-toasts into the pan.

"What'd you do with Angel?"

Buffy paled. "What do—I really don't want to talk about this in front of Kaya—"

Dawn frowned. "I mean, he's not in evidence at the moment; what did you do with him?"

Buffy tried to relax. She did some deep breathing; she thought hard about relaxing. But as she flipped Dawn's French toast, Buffy saw that her hands were shaking.

"He's, um, he's upstairs," Buffy finally forced out. "Sleeping."

"In your bed?" Dawn said, raising her brow. "Is that where he slept last night?"

Buffy flushed. "Shut up."

She pointed her spatula at Kaya. Dawn rolled her eyes.

"Please. Kaya doesn't have any idea of the implications of your sleeping arrangements. But I do. Are you going to tell me what's going on with you two?" Dawn's eyes flickered down to her sister's stomach. "You three?"

Buffy flushed even further, her cheeks positively radiating with heat.

"I do _not_ want to talk about this in front of Kaya," Buffy hissed.

"I want to talk," Kaya mumbled, mouth full.

"Fine," Dawn said. "But this isn't over."

***

Buffy and a tray of breakfast walked quietly through her dark bedroom. She sat at the edge of the bed, balancing the tray on the bedside table. The blankets moved at low tide, Angel stirring.

His dark eyes blinked up at her.

"Smells sweet," he said. His words were still slightly slurred, but Buffy was unsure whether this was due to the Demerol or what the Black Thorn had done to his face.

"I made you some breakfast," Buffy said. "If you're hungry. French toast."

Angel struggled out from under the mess of blankets and into a sitting position, which was generally the reception Buffy had expected when she made his favorite breakfast. Once he'd sat up, though, Angel frowned, blinked druggedly.

"Where are we?"

"Um, in our bedroom? At the house."

Angel massaged a temple with his good hand. "How—I don't really remember how we got here." His face morphed into a Kabuki-exaggerated mask of fear. "Did—did I lose my memories again? Buffy, what—?"

Buffy brought Angel's hand away from his head, held it in her own.

"Sweetie, no. You didn't lose your memories. Just calm down, and think. What's the last thing you remember?"

Angel thought, though he didn't appear to calm down any. "I—we went to the doctor. She took an x-ray, and then—I remember getting a shot . . . and then . . . then there's nothing, just—just right now, and I—"

A hollow feeling ballooned in Buffy's stomach. The feeling for missing a stair, for realizing the earth's no longer supporting you. _No, I just—love you. I'm sorry and I love you._

Through no magic, some things could just be gone. Forgotten.

"I—you don't remember anything after that?" Buffy said. Angel looked panicked, and Buffy closed her eyes, steeled herself. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was stronger. "Angel, you didn't lose your memories. The doctor gave you a shot, and it just made you a little muddleheaded. You're fine."

Angel relaxed immeasurably. "Oh. Right. I should . . . I should've known that."

Buffy brought the tray between them. Angel smiled.

"You cooked for me," he said. "I can't remember the last time you did that. Thank you."

Angel went to take the fork in his hand, but the cast made things difficult; the implement slid several times from his clumsy grasp.

"Here," Buffy said. She picked up the fork and squished off a bite sized square of French toast, which she then speared on the prongs and proffered to Angel.

He looked grim. "I don't want to be a burden."

Buffy frowned down at the plate. Errant drops of syrup shone dimly on the crowded plate; Buffy thought of the previous night, Angel's blood gleaming in the sink. He'd slept poorly all night, his body shaking with nightmares and pain.

"You remember when I was pregnant, and I got so big I couldn't reach, like, beyond my hugely enormous stomach? And you had to help me shave my legs, and tie my shoes, stuff like that?"

The corner of Angel's mouth tugged up.

"I remember," he said.

"Was that a burden on you?"

"What? No, of course not."

"You do stuff for people you love, because you love them. So me helping you out? Not a burden on me."

She proffered the French toast again. After a beat, Angel took the bait, and a bite.

He smiled. "It's good. Thanks."

Buffy helped him eat. After a long while of silence, she said, "So I was thinking—you know, in the spirit of not burdening each other—that maybe it might not be a bad idea for you to move back here. Just, you know, so I can give you a hand with stuff. You know, since yours is broken."

Angel ruminated for a moment.

"Just for convenience's sake," Angel said, eyeing her dubiously.

"Of course."

"Well," Angel said. "I'd hate to be inconvenient."

***

"Dawn," Buffy said, descending the stairs. "Can you get everybody together? Angel's coming downstairs in a minute; we need to do our big reveal."

"Yeah," Dawn said. "That's not going to happen."

"What? But—"

"Instead," Dawn said. "That talk that you've been avoiding? That's happening now."

Buffy squirmed. "Dawn, really—"

"So, Angel's moving back in," Dawn said. "Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Because he wants to or because you're pregnant? You are pregnant, right?"

"Well, yeah," Buffy said. "What do you think I am, some crazy, desperate Jerry Springer guest trying to sucker in my man with a fake baby?" Dawn just looked at her. Buffy flushed. "Well, I'm not! And—and he wants to!"

"I hope so," Dawn said seriously. "Buffy, you gotta play this by the book."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I know how tempting it is to just—you know, fix things. But some things you just have to . . . you know, work at. I understand why you wanted to keep Angel's memories from him before—I do! But if you try a quick fix again, I think you're going to lose him. For good lose him."

Buffy slumped against the counter. "Sometimes I think Angel makes me stupid."

"Well, yeah," Dawn said. "That's not news to anyone. But you two deserve each other."

Buffy frowned. Dawn sighed mightily. "I meant that in a good way, stupe."

"Really?"

"Really."

***

"So how'd our fact-finding mission go?" Kennedy asked. "You're alive, so—"

"—our mighty brains can deduce that you managed not to get killed," Yael finished.

"That's not what I was getting at," Kennedy growled.

"Children," Giles said. "Let's not quarrel."

"I am happy you're alive," Sasha said.

Angel smiled.

"Got your ass kicked, though," Xander said.

The smile slid right off Angel's face. "I did not get my ass kicked."

"You did a little, honey," Buffy said. "But you weren't exactly evenly matched."

"Like I said," Kennedy said. "Slayer entourage."

"I like to avoid a body count when possible," Angel said.

"Your record certainly reflects that," Giles said.

Buffy laid her hand on Angel's shoulder, held him in place.

"Let's focus on the present," she said. "Angel, why don't you tell us what you learned."

"Mairatu," he said.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "Is that those whale rider people?"

Giles, she realized, was staring at Angel.

"It's a book of prophecy," Giles said, in his _really thinking about something else_ voice.

"What's it prophecy about?" Buffy asked.

"Like most prophecies," Giles said, "the end of the world. I believe I have a copy in the library. Excuse me."

Giles hurried off to the library. Angel watched him go with a slight smile.

"What's so funny?" Buffy asked.

"He thought infiltrating the Black Thorn was reckless and stupid, but it paid off big—and in his arena, no less," Angel said.

Buffy frowned. "I still don't get it."

"The Mairatu," Giles said, walking back into the conversation with a book spread open atop his palms, "talks extensively about the birth of a child, a child who will rise up as a warrior for the forces of good."

"Once he's grown up, of course," Angel said, noticing Buffy's confused expression.

"I still don't get it," Kennedy said.

"I do," Dawn said. "The Black Thorn are really worried about this Mairatu guy."

"And they think they've narrowed in on the time and place of the birth, as described in the text," Giles said.

"But I'm guessing that's as much narrowing as they can do," Dawn said. "Because they're not really being discriminate with the killing."

"So, what?" Yael said. "They're just going to keep killing pregnant women forever?"

"No," Angel said. "I'm sure they're operating on a window of time; they'll take out as many possibilities as they can before the window's over."

"So the important question is," Buffy said, "how big's the window?"

"I don't know," Giles said. "I'll have to consult the text."

Buffy smiled. "Of course you will."

"Buffy," Dawn said. "You know what this means."

"That we need to buff up our street presence again?"

Dawn zeroed an unpitying look at her sister. "No, you dumbass. It means that you're a freaking target."

Buffy hadn't considered this. "You think?"

Kennedy frowned. "God, is everything Buffycentric? How'd you get to be a target?"

"Oh," Buffy said. "You know. The usual way."

"The usual way in which the universe orbits you, or—"

"She's pregnant, you idiot," Yael said.

Kennedy blinked. "Oh."

"Buffy!" Willow said, lunging on Buffy with a hug. "Congratulations!" Without releasing Buffy from her chokehold-hug, Willow showered an enormous grin on Angel. "And, and Angel! Congratulations to you, too!"

Angel smiled. "Thanks, Willow."

He took Buffy's hand. Heat surged through Buffy's body, and her mind bumped off track. She knew she needed to concentrate on this whole mighty evil and being a target thing, but he'd just taken her hand, for no reason, like it was nothing.

***

Angel shook the bed. He'd refused his painkillers, and had fallen into a restless, nightmare-torn sleep. Buffy lay on her back, feeling the transferred tremors tickle through her body, watching the ceiling blur.

"—don't—I—sorry, so sorry—no, please—"

Angel's back arched painfully; his fingers grasped desperately at the linens. From his chest, the long, low cry of a cornered beast.

"—please, please—"

The window was open, and night winds pulled at the curtains. The moon trespassed in, making a seascape of everything it touched. Far off in the distance, Buffy could hear the wilderness of the woods around them. This house, like an island of safety amidst the wild unknown of nature.

Angel began to cry, and Buffy rested her hand on his shoulder. Angel twisted, and the sound of his tears was muffled in his pillow. Outside, the ghostly scream of a barn owl, so close the primal thing within Buffy cowered. She slipped her hands around Angel's ribs and pulled him away from the pillow, turned him to his back.

Angel's eyes blinked open, strangely brilliant in the darkness, as wild thing's eyes often are. He blinked several times, his face twitching through expressions: confusion, fear, the baring of fangs.

"It's okay," Buffy said. "It was just a dream."

Angel moaned, arching uncomfortably against the unfortunate physical reality of the mattress. In the moonlight, his bare throat was marble pale.

"It was. Not. Just a dream," he said. His eyes flickered over the ceiling, the open window, everything but her.

"Angel," Buffy said. Her hands were still on his ribs, his heartbeat thrumming against her palms. Buffy thought of water pumps, of holding your hands beneath the mouth and catching the water as it was torn out of the ground and thrust into the waiting air. She wondered if the wounds beneath his bandages were still bleeding.

"You're carrying a murderer's child," Angel said. "Does that bother you?"

"You're not a murderer."

"I have a lot of memories to the contrary," Angel said. He squirmed out of her touch. Suddenly he was on his feet, pacing, his head and neck twisting as an unbroken horse's does. "How—how can I know they're real? These things in my head . . . it could just be something else she put there."

"They're real," Buffy said.

Angel sat on the bed. "I know."

He looked at Buffy, sitting on the bed, clothed in moonlight and a cotton nightgown.

"I miss the pajamas," Angel said. "The ones you used to wear."

"It's too hot," she said, "here in the land of no central air. I'll get them out when it gets cooler."

And Angel looked at her, and suddenly Buffy missed the pajamas, too; the cotton, damp with perspiration, was too thin to obscure much of her body, even in the dim light.

"That's a silly thing to miss," Angel said. "Pajamas." He stared at her, in the way that he had that made Buffy think he was looking past her flesh to something more permanent. "The baby, I—you really want me for the father of your children?"

"Of course I do."

Angel looked down. Buffy took his hand, the good one, in hers. Angel looked up, met her eyes.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked, softly.

Before she spoke, Buffy was aware of her complete failure at obscuring the surprise on her face.

"Angel, yes. Of course I do."

Angel was quiet for a long moment. Buffy went to touch him, to bring him back to her, but before she could Angel was kissing her, his hands in her hair, against her body, his mouth on hers.

Angel shook the bed.

***

Buffy woke in the golden glow of late morning. She was alone; Angel was gone, his side of the bed cool to the touch. Buffy frowned. As she rose, she found her body throbbed with a raw and insistent ache, blooming between her legs and then radiating out, sickening her whole body. The shower took care of most, though not all, of the pain at her extremities, but did little to extinguish the source.

Buffy dressed and then went to check on Kaya; the girl was gone. Buffy could hear the house bustling with activity. She had not woken this late in a long time; she was used to waking to find the house sleeping.

In the kitchen, two junior Slayers were doing the dishes; another was tidying the counters. At the island, Dawn and Willow were bent over a hundred years' worth of dusty papers.

"Look who's up," Dawn said.

"Save me your _we've been up all night researching_ angst," Buffy said. "Have you seen Angel?"

"At breakfast, almost an hour ago," Dawn said.

"I think he's in the garden," Willow said.

"Thanks, Will."

There were piles of dark, still damp earth mounded upon the summer green grass. Kaya sat at the edge of one, pail and shovel in hand, making the mud equivalent of a sand castle. Angel was a few feet away, unearthing and replanting tomatoes.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Buffy asked, slanting a glance at Kaya.

"She'll wash," Angel said.

Buffy crouched beside him. Closer, she noticed that his cast was discolored. There was some Cyrillic script, punctuated by hearts and smiley faces, written in baby blue felt-tip pen; a lime green cartoon in what Buffy recognized as Dawn's rounded script; and "You'll be kicking ass again soon" scrawled next to a flower of lipstick the color of dried blood.

Buffy smiled wryly. Angel loved girls, and girls certainly loved Angel.

"I see your fan club's been by with the well wishes," Buffy said. "How come you don't have any male fans?"

Angel shrugged. "Niche appeal, I guess."

Buffy lingered over the lipstick. "Been by to see Faith?"

"No," Angel said. "She came by to see me."

"Huh?"

"She's here." He looked up, at the great expanse of bright sky and bustling manor. "Around here somewhere, anyway."

"She just . . . showed up?"

"No," Angel said, turning back to his replanting. "I invited her."

Buffy deflated. "Oh."

"I thought she should be made aware of what was going on. You know, the new information we have on the Black Thorn."

Buffy relaxed. "Oh."

"Buffy, about last night . . ."

Buffy's veins ran with glacial water. Nothing good lasted, and she had been waiting for this; her mind ran through the possibilities. _Buffy, we made a mistake. Buffy, we should just forget anything ever happened. Buffy, it doesn't mean anything. Buffy, it's over._

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Okay."

He met her eyes. "Buffy, Dawn's right, about you being a target. And I just—I just really need you to be extra careful until we figure this out. It's not just about you; it's about the baby, too. Okay?"

Buffy blinked. "What? What are you—you're talking about the Black Thorn?"

Angel studied her oddly. "Yes. What did you—?"

A bubble of giddy, nervous laughter erupted from Buffy's mouth. "What? Nothing. Nothing. Of course I'll be careful. I mean, you know me."

***

"So, we've been on this prophecy like white on Pat Buchanan," Dawn said. "And we've narrowed the window. To sometime before the end of the year."

"And an area of no less than a hundred mile radius of the center of town," Giles said.

Buffy frowned. "That's it?"

"Gets better," Willow said. "We haven't found—in the prophecy or anywhere else—a single clue as to how to find this woman."

"What about your magical spell tracker thingie?" Buffy asked.

Willow shook her head. "Sorry, no. Too many variables, not enough solid signals."

"So there's no way for us to locate and protect this woman, either," Buffy said.

"It wouldn't matter even if we could," Angel said.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "How come?"

"Because even if we know who she is," Angel said. "The Black Thorn won't."

"And they're just going to keep killing every possible pre-warrior until their window expires," Dawn said. "Salting the earth, or whatever."

"Well, that doesn't seem fair!" Willow said. "We have all the information, and there's still no smart move?"

"There's only one move," Buffy said. "I don't know how smart it is, but it's our only choice."

"What's that?" Kennedy asked.

"We take out the Black Thorn," Buffy said. "They're evil—they're fair game. And if we kill them all—salt _their_ earth—they won't be able to go around killing people anymore."

Angel looked extremely tense. "Buffy—"

"I mean, really, it's just good housekeeping," Buffy continued, as though she were oblivious to Angel's taut muscles, to the fear raging in his eyes, "they're evil, they're making evil waves; it's our job to clean up after that kind of thing."

"I like it," Kennedy said.

"I don't," Angel said. "Buffy, I tried that before, and not only did it not change _anything_ , it rained such hell down upon me—"

"When you and your little group went after them," Buffy said. "I have an army. An army can take care of it."

"What if there are repercussions?" Angel said. "Larger, outside repercussions?"

"There won't be."

Angel's eyes were wild, desperate. "You can't know that."

"I can't," Buffy said. "But I can know that it's the right thing to do. And I know that sometimes being in our position means doing the right thing, even if it's stupid. And you know it, too; that's why you took down the Black Thorn in LA. Because smart and right don't always meet, and being a champion means having the balls to do the right, stupid thing."

Angel still looked spooked. Buffy took his hand.

"You know what else I know?"

"What's that?"

"That you'll come with me, when I go to do the right thing. Because you're still that guy."

Angel looked down at their interlocked hands, then back up at Buffy. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

***

Angel drew a diagram of the Black Thorn's lair and hung it up on the kitchen cabinets, where the steam from Giles' tea made it slightly limp, transparent.

"Still rocking the photographic memory, I see," Dawn said.

"It comes in handy now and again," Angel said.

Buffy smiled wryly. "Yeah. Mostly when I've lost my keys."

"So they're, like, having their meetings in someone's house, or some shit?" Faith asked. "Like a fucking evil bridge club?"

"It's more of a manor, but yeah," Angel said.

"What happened to crypts and sewers and all those respectable demon hideouts?" Faith asked.

"I guess the rich really are different," Yael said.

"It's definitely good for us," Angel said. "It's a house: there are a lot of hallways and staircases and other places to get them to bottleneck. It's very unlikely we'll take them all in the meeting room; they'll run off to other parts of the house, and we can take them one by one."

"The key thing's going to be a problem," Buffy said.

"Which is why I'm going in first," Angel said.

"Absolutely not. You're human, and you're injured—"

"We'll lose the element of surprise, and we need it. I'll go in first."

Buffy frowned. "I don't like it."

"It's tactically the correct decision," Angel said.

"He's right, B," Faith said. "But it's not like he's gonna go in there swinging; he can just go in, get a headcount, and get out."

"I have a better idea," Yael said.

"Oh yeah?" Buffy said. "Share with the class."

"I think it might be better if Angel did a little light infantry for us," Yael said. "You know, while he's in the area. Plant some things."

"What kind of things?" Faith said.

"Explosive things."

" _Explosives_?" Willow echoed.

"Just a few small ones," Yael said.

Faith blinked. Then her mouth spread into an enormous grin. "Excellent."

"Where are we going to get explosives?" Buffy asked.

"We'll make them." Yael looked around the kitchen. "I bet you've got the stuff under the sink, or in the pantry." She looked at Angel. "You use fertilizer in the garden, right?"

He nodded.

"Where did you learn to make explosives?" Buffy asked.

" _Tzahal_."

"Um, gesundheit," Buffy said.

" _Tzahal_ is Israel's army," Angel said. "You were a soldier before you were Called?"

Yael grinned. "Before and after. Definitely more fun after."

Faith grinned, too. "That is so hot."

"Okay," Buffy said. "Great. Yael whips up some explosives; Angel uses his tattoo key to sneak in and plant them—this is a thing he can do without blowing himself up, right, Yael?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Super. Angel plants them, we blow them up, and when we storm in and set off the alarms, there's disorientation and injury already. I like it." She turned to her soldiers. "So. What else you got?"

***

The air was still hazy with smoke, and the smell hung thick in the air: sparklers and gasoline. Buffy sheathed her stake, handed her sword off to a junior Slayer, and walked through the smoldering wreckage of the Black Thorn house. The aftermath was always somewhat surreal: the quiet after the roar of battle. Around her, the walls were black and peeling; pieces of plaster and broken furniture littered the once-plush, once-snow white carpet. Ex-potentials helped each other up, helped each other limp out of the house. In her periphery, Buffy was aware of Faith sticking each of the fallen Black Thorn brethren with her sword, just checking.

Buffy found Angel in the kitchen, picking himself up out of a heap of plaster that had been, until Yael had set off her explosives, a fully-functioning and perfectly contented wall. He was pale.

"You okay?" Buffy asked. She flinched; several thin rivulets of blood trickled from beneath Angel's cast, down his fingers.

His voice was small, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Sure."

"I could—" Buffy wrung her hands; her tongue twisted and stalled in finding the right words. "Do you want some help?"

"Okay."

Angel let Buffy put her arm around him, let her take his weight. Together, they walked slowly through the battleground wreckage.

"You're gonna be in big trouble with Dr. Morgan," Buffy said. "You were supposed to be taking it easy."

"I'll just tell her I did it to see her," Angel said. "That I can't stay away."

"You can't go around talking like that," Buffy said. "You're a married man."

Buffy tripped as soon as she heard the words crystallize in the air. She tried to regain her footing, but the going was rough.

Angel was quiet for a devastating minute; finally, he smiled.

"That's right," he said.

The debris tripping them up began to thin, and it was a smooth shot out the door and into the waiting night.  



End file.
